YELLOWSTONE  NIGHTS 


YELLOWSTONE 
NIGHTS 


By 
HERBERT  QUICK 

AUTHOR  OF 

ALLADIN  &  CO. 

VIRGINA  OF  THB  AIR  LANES,  ETC. 


GROSSET    &    DUNLAP 

PUBLISHER       -       NEW  YORK 


COPYRIGHT  1911 
THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 


Bancroft 


YELLOWSTONE  NIGHTS 

>O*r  ' 


YELLOWSTONE  NIGHTS 


CHAPTER  I 

TT  was  August  the  third — and  the  rest  of  it  Be- 
ing  over  Montana,  and  the  Rockies,  the  skies 
were  just  as  described  by  Truthful  James.  In  the 
little  park  between  the  N.  P.  Station  and  the  en- 
trance to  Yellowstone  Park  a  stalwart  young  fellow 
and  a  fluffy,  lacy,  Paquined  girl  floated  from  place 
to  place  with  their  feet  seven  or  eight  inches  from 
the  earth — or  so  it  seemed.  They  disappeared  be- 
hind some  shrubbery  and  sat  down  on  a  bench, 
where  the  young  man  hugged  the  girl  ferociously, 
and  she,  with  that  patient  endurance  which  is  the 
wonder  and  glory  of  womanhood,  suffered  it  un- 
complainingly. In  fact  she  reciprocated  it 

Note  that  we  said  a  moment  ago  that  they  dis- 
appeared.  From  whose  gaze?   Not  from  ours,  for 

i 


4  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

"Go  with  you?"  asked  the  ornithologist.  "Go 
where?" 

"Tour  of  the  Park?"  replied  the  man  with  the 
whip.  "I'm  having  hard  work  to  get  a  load." 

"I  think,"  said  the  person  addressed,  "that  I  can 
finish  my  inspection  of  the  Park  on  foot.  It  is,  in 
fact,  surprisingly  small,  and  not  at  all  what  I  had 
expected.  I  have  been  pacing  it  off.  There  are  very 
few  acres  in  it — " 

"I'll  be  dog-goned,"  said  the  man  with  the  whip, 
"if  he  don't  think  this  is  the  Yellowstone  Park! 
Stranger,  look  at  yon  beautiful  arch,  erected  by 
Uncle  Sam  out  of  hexagonal  blocks  of  basalt !  That 
marks  the  entrance  to  the  Wonderland  of  the  World, 
a  matchless  nat'ral  park  of  more'n  three  thousand 
square  miles,  filled  with  unnat'ral  wonders  of  na- 
ture! This  is  the  front  yard  of  the  railroad  station. 
It'll  take  you  days  and  days  to  do  the  Park — anr 
years  to  do  it  right." 

"Oh,  in  that  case,"  responded  the  investigator,  "of 
course  you  may  rely  upon  my  joining  you !" 

"I  want  two  more,  lady,"  said  the  driver.  "What 
say?" 

"No,"  said  the  young  man.  "We've  decided  to  cut 
the  Park  out." 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  3 

jot  down  the  cause  of  the  chirping  sound  which  had 
greeted  his  ears. 

"I  think  I  heard  young  birds  in  this  bush/'  said  he. 

"You  did,"  responded  the  young  man,  blushing. 

"This  park  is  full  of  them,"  said  the  girl,  rather 
less  embarrassed. 

"Did  you  note  the  species?"  queried  he  of  the 
glasses.  "I  seem  quite  unable  to  catch  sight  of 
them." 

"They  are  turtle-doves,"  said  the  girl. 

"Gulls!"  said  the  man. 

The  girl  giggled  hysterically.  The  naturalist  was 
protesting  that  gulls  never  nest  in  such  places,  and 
the  young  man  was  becoming  hopelessly  confused, 
when  a  fourth  figure  joined  the  group.  He  was  clad 
in  garments  of  the  commonest  sort — but  the  girl 
was  at  once  struck  by  the  fact  that  he  wore  a  soft 
roll  collar  on  his  flannel  shirt,  and  a  huge  red  silk 
neckerchief.  Moreover,  he  carried  a  long  whip 
which  he  trailed  after  him  in  the  grass. 

"Local  color  at  last !"  she  whispered  to  her  lover. 
"I  know  we're  going  to  have  a  shooting  or  a  cow- 
boy adventure!" 

"Well,"  the  new-comer  said,  "do  you  go  with  us, 
or  not,  Doc?" 


4  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

"Go  with  you?"  asked  the  ornithologist.  "Go 
where?" 

"Tour  of  the  Park?"  replied  the  man  with  the 
whip.  "I'm  having  hard  work  to  get  a  load." 

"I  think,"  said  the  person  addressed,  "that  I  can 
finish  my  inspection  of  the  Park  on  foot.  It  is,  in 
fact,  surprisingly  small,  and  not  at  all  what  I  had 
expected.  I  have  been  pacing  it  off.  There  are  very 
few  acres  in  it — " 

"I'll  be  dog-goned,"  said  the  man  with  the  whip, 
"if  he  don't  think  this  is  the  Yellowstone  Park! 
Stranger,  look  at  yon  beautiful  arch,  erected  by 
Uncle  Sam  out  of  hexagonal  blocks  of  basalt !  That 
marks  the  entrance  to  the  Wonderland  of  the  World, 
a  matchless  nat'ral  park  of  more'n  three  thousand 
square  miles,  filled  with  unnat'ral  wonders  of  na- 
ture! This  is  the  front  yard  of  the  railroad  station. 
It'll  take  you  days  and  days  to  do  the  Park — anr 
years  to  do  it  right." 

"Oh,  in  that  case,"  responded  the  investigator,  "of 
course  you  may  rely  upon  my  joining  you!" 

"I  want  two  more,  lady,"  said  the  driver.  "What 
say?" 

"No,"  said  the  young  man.  "WeVe  decided  to  cut 
the  Park  out." 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  5 

"I've  changed  my  mind,  I  believe/'  said  the  girl. 
"Let's  go!" 

"But  I  thought—" 

And  so  the  party  was  made  up.  It  was  like  one  of 
those  strange  meetings  that  take  place  on  shipboard, 
on  the  wharves  of  ports — wherever  fate  takes  men 
in  her  hands,  shakes  them  like  dice,  and  throws  them 
on  the  board — and  peeps  at  them  to  see  what  pairs, 
threes,  flushes  and  other  harmonies  make  up  the 
strength  of  the  cast. 

There  were  seven  of  them.  In  the  rear  seat  of  the 
surrey  sat  two  young  men  wearing  broad-brimmed 
Stetsons,  and  corduroys.  Their  scarfs  were  pro- 
nouncedly Windsor,  and  the  ends  thereof  streamed 
in  the  breeze  as  did  the  pennon  of  cloud  from  the 
top  of  Electric  Peak  off  there  in  the  west.  The  one 
with  the  long  hair  and  the  Dresden-china  complexion 
starting  to  peel  off  at  the  lips,  was  the  Minor  Poet 
who  eked  out  a  living  by  the  muck-raker's  dread- 
ful trade.  He  spoke  of  our  malefactors  of  great 
wealth  as  "burglars"  and  grew  soft-eyed  and  mute 
as  the  splendors  of  the  Yellowstone  Wonderland 
grew  upon  him.  With  him  was  a  smaller  man, 
shorter  of  hair,  and  younger  in  years — which  youth 


6  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

was  advertised  by  its  disguise :  a  dark,  silky  Van- 
dyke. He  was  an  artist  who  was  known  to  the  read- 
ers of  Puck,  Judge  and  Life  for  his  thick-lipped 
"coons"  and  shapeless  hoboes,  and  who  was  here  in 
the  Park  with  the  Poet  for  the  purpose  of  drawing 
pictures  for  a  prose  poem  which  should  immortalize 
both.  So  much  for  the  rear  seat. 

The  next  seat  forward  was  sacred  to  love.  That 
is,  it  was  occupied  by  the  Bride  and  Groom,  who 
called  each  other  by  the  names  of  "Billy"  and 
"Dolly,"  and  tried  to  behave  as  if  very  mature  and 
long-married — with  what  success  we  have  seen.  It 
was  in  pursuance  of  this  scheme  that  they  deliber- 
ately refused  to  take  the  rear  seat  when  it  was 
pointedly  offered  them  by  the  Poet  and  the  Artist 
They  were  very  quiet  now,  the  Bride  in  stout  shoes, 
mountain-climbing  skirt  and  sweater,  the  Groom  in 
engineer's  boots  and  khaki.  In  the  next  seat  for- 
ward sat  the  man  of  note-books,  field-glasses,  mag- 
nify ing-glasses  and  drabs.  The  driver  called  him  at 
first  "Doc" ;  but  soon  adopted  the  general  usage  by 
which  he  was  dubbed  "Professor."  He  was  myopic ; 
but  proud  of  his  powers  of  observation.  So  wide 
was  his  reading  that  he  knew  nothing.  His  tour  of 
the  Park  was  made  as  a  step  toward  that  mastery  of 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  7 

all  knowledge  which  he  had  adopted  as  his  goal.  At 
once  he  saw  that  the  rest  of  the  party  were  light- 
minded  children,  frittering  life  away;  and  at  once 
they  took  his  measure.  This  made  for  mutual  en- 
joyment. Nothing  so  conduces  to  good  relations  as 
the  proper  niching  of  the  members  of  the  party. 

With  him  sat  Colonel  Baggs,  of  Omaha,  who 
smoked  all  the  time  and  quoted  Blackstone  and  Kent 
for  his  seat-mate's  Epictetus  and  Samuel  Smiles. 
Whenever  time  hung  heavy  on  the  party  for  sheer 
lack  of  power  to  wonder,  Colonel  Baggs  restored 
tonicity  to  their  brains  by  some  far-fetched  argu- 
ment to  which  he  provoked  Professor  Boggs,  where- 
in the  Colonel  violated  all  rules  and  escaped  confu- 
sion by  the  most  transparent  fakir's  tricks,  solemnly 
regarding  the  Professor  with  one  side  of  his  face, 
and  winking  and  grimacing  at  those  behind  with  the 
other. 

In  the  driver's  seat  sat  Aconite  Driscoll,  erst- 
while cow-boy,  but  now  driver  of  a  Yellowstone 
surrey,  with  four  cayuses  in  hand,  and  a  whip  in 
place  of  the  quirt  of  former  years.  When  you  tour 
the  Yellowstone  may  he  be  your  guide,  driver,  pro- 
tector, entertainer  and  friend. 

So  they  were  seven,  as  I  remarked.    The  Bride 


8  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

counted  out  as  for  I-spy,  "  'One,  two,  three,  four, 
five,  six,  seven;  All  good  children  go  to  heaven!' ' 
The  Minor  Poet  said,  "  'We  are  seven.'  "  The  Artist 
quoted,  "  'Seven  men  from  all  the  world'  " — and 
looked  at  the  Bride.  "  'Back  to  Docks  again,'  "  she 
continued,  knowing  her  Kipling,  "  'Rolling  down  the 
Ratcliffe  Road,  drunk  and  raising  Cain.'  Thanks 
for  including  me  as  a  man."  The  Artist  bowed. 
"Anyhow,"  said  the  Poet,  "  'We  are  seven/  " 

They  were  all  in  the  surrey  and  Aconite  had  the 
reins  in  hand,  his  whip  poised,  and  his  lips  pursed 
for  the  initiatory  chirrup,  when  there  put  his  foot 
on  the  hub  the  Hired  Man,  who  looked  the  part  and 
presently  explained  that  he  worked  on  farms  as  a 
regular  thing,  and  who  was  to  be  number  eight. 
"If  this  seven  business  is  eatin'  yeh  so  bad,"  said  he, 
"kain't  I  make  a  quadrille  of  it?  I  never  pay  fare, 
nowheres;  but  I  kin  cook,  'n  drive,  'n  rustle  fire- 
wood, 'n  drive  tent-pins — an'  you  seem  to  have  an 
empty  seat.  What  say?"  Aconite  looked  back  into 
the  faces  of  his  load.  All  looked  at  the  Bride  as 
commander-in-chief — the  Bride  nodded.  "Shore!" 
said  Aconite.  "Hop  in !" 

They  rolled  through  the  great  arch  at  the  en- 
trance, and  bowled  along  the  road  in  breath-taking 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  9 

style  as  they  crossed  bridge  after  bridge,  the  walls 
of  Gardiner  Canon  towering  on  each  side  with  its 
left-hand  copings  crumbling  into  pinnacles  like 
ruined  battlements,  on  which  sat  fishing-eagles  as 
sentinels,  their  eyes  scanning  the  flashing  stream 
below.  The  wild  roses  were  still  in  sparse  bloom; 
the  cottonwood  groves  showed  splotches  of  bril- 
liant yellow;  the  cedars  gloomed  in  steady  and  de- 
pendable green.  Autumn  leaves  and  spring  flowers, 
and  over  all  a  sky  of  ultramarine. 

"See  there !"  exclaimed  the  Bride,  pointing  at  the 
huge  stream  of  hot  water  where  Boiling  River 
bursts  from  its  opening  in  the  rocks,  and  falls  steam- 
ing into  the  Gardiner.  "What  in  the  world  is  it — a 
geyser?" 

"That  there  little  spurt,"  said  Aconite,  "is  where 
the  sink-pipe  dreens  off.  from  Mammoth  Hot 
Springs.  Don't  begin  bein'  surprised  at  things  like 
them!" 

The  Professor  made  notes.  Colonel  Baggs  as- 
serted that  hot  water  is  hot  water,  no  matter  where 
found  or  in  whatever  quantities,  and  couldn't  be 
considered  much  of  a  wonder.  The  Professor  took 
up  the  gage  of  battle,  while  the  carriage  wound  up 
the  hill,  away  from  the  river;  but  even  he  forbore 


io  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

discourse,  when  the  view  opened,  as  the  afternoon 
sun  fell  behind  the  hills,  on  the  steaming  terraces 
and  boiling  basins  of  Mammoth  Hot  Springs. 

They  scattered  to  the  near-by  marvels,  and  re- 
turned to  camp  where  Aconite,  assisted  by  the  Hired 
Man,  had  prepared  camp  fare  for  the  party.  The 
Bride  and  Groom  announced  their  intention  to  take 
pot  luck  with  the  rest,  though  the  great  hotel  was 
ready  for  their  reception. 

"We  are  honored,  I  am  sure/'  said  Colonel  Baggs. 
"Would  that  we  had  a  troupe  of  performing  night- 
ingales to  clothe  the  night  with  charm  fit  for  so 
lovely  a  member  of  the  party." 

"Oh,  thank  you  ever  so  much/'  said  the  Bride, 
"but  I've  just  proposed  to  Billy  a  plan  that  will  be 
better  than  any  sort  of  troupe.  We  can  make  this 
trip  a  regular  Arabian  Nights'  entertainment.  Tell 
them,  Billy!" 

"We're  to  make  a  hat  pool,"  said  Billy,  "and  the 
loser  tells  a  story." 

"Good  thought!"  said  the  Poet 

"I  don't  understand,"  protested  the  Professor. 

"Well,  then,  here  you  are !"  said  Billy.  "I  write 
all  our  names  on  these  slips  of  paper — Driver,  Poet, 
Artist,  Professor — and  the  rest  of  us.  I  mix  them 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  n 

in  this  Stetson.  I  pass  them  to  the  most  innocent 
of  the  party,  and  one  is  drawn — " 

"Well,  let  me  draw,  then!"  said  the  Bride. 

"Not  on  your  life!"  said  Billy.  "Here,  Pro- 
fessor !" 

Amid  half-hidden  chuckling,  the  Professor  took  a 
slip  from  the  hat  and  handed  it  to  the  Groom. 

"On  this  ballot,"  said  he,  "is  written  The  Poet.' 
That  gentleman  will  now  favor  the  audience,  ladies 
and  gentlemen,  with  a  story." 

The  moon  was  climbing  through  the  lodge-pole 
pines,  and  the  camp  was  mystic  with  the  flicker  of 
the  firelight  on  the  rocks  and  trees.  The  Poet 
looked  about  as  if  for  an  inspiration.  His  eyes  fell 
on  the  Bride,  so  sweet,  so  cuddleable,  so  alluring. 

"I  will  tell  you  a  story  that  occurred  to  me  as  we 
drove  along,"  said  he.  "If  you  don't  like  tragedy, 
don't  call  on  a  poet  for  entertainment  in  a  tragic 
moment" 

A  TELEPATHIC  TRAGEDY 

BEING  THE  STORY  TOLD  BY  THE  MINOR  POET 

He  sat  reading  a  magazine.  Chancing  upon  a  pic- 
ture of  the  bronze  Sappho  which,  if  you  have  luck, 


12  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

you  will  find  in  the  museum  at  Naples,  he  began 
gazing  at  it,  first  casually,  then  intently,  then  almost 
hypnotically.  The  grand  woman's  head  with  its  low 
masses  of  hair;  the  nose  so  high  as  to  be  almost 
Roman,  so  perfect  in  chiseling  as  to  be  ultra-Greek ; 
the  mouth  eloquent  of  divinest  passion;  the  neck, 
sloping  off  to  strong  shoulders  and  a  bust  opulent 
of  charm — it  shot  through  him  an  unwonted  thrill 
It  may  have  arisen  from  memories  of  Lesbos,  Myti- 
lene,  and  the  Leucadian  Rock.  It  may  have  been 
the  direct  influence  from  her  peep-hole  on  Olympus 
of  Sappho's  own  Aphrodite.  Anyhow,  he  felt  the 
thrill. 

Possibly  it  was  some  subtle  effluence  from  things 
nearer  and  more  concrete  than  either,  for  as  he 
closed  the  magazine  that  he  might  rarefy  and  pro- 
long this  pulsing  wave  of  poetry  by  excluding  the 
distracting  pages  from  his  sight,  his  vision,  resting 
for  an  instant  upon  the  ribbon  of  grass  and  flowers 
flowing  back  beside  the  train,  swept  inboard  and 
was  arrested  by  a  modish  hat,  a  pile  of  ruddy  hair, 
a  rosy  ear,  the  creamy  back  and  side  of  a  round  neck, 
and  the  curve  of  a  cheek.  A  most  interesting  phe- 
nomenon in  wave-interference  at  once  took  place. 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  13 

The  hypnotic  vibrations  of  the  Sapphic  thrill  were 
affected  by  a  new  series,  striking  them  in  like  phases. 
The  result  was  the  only  possible  one.  The  vibrations 
went  on,  in  an  amplitude  increased  to  the  height  of 
their  superimposed  crests.  No  wonder  things  hap- 
pened :  it  is  a  matter  of  surprise  that  the  very  deuce 
wasi  not  to  pay. 

For  the  hair  combined  with  the  hat  in  a  sym- 
metrical and  harmonious  whole,  in  an  involved  and 
curvilinear  complexity  difficult  to  describe;  but  the 
effect  is  easy  to  imagine — I  hope.  The  red-brown 
coils  wound  in  and  out  under  a  broad  brim  which 
drooped  on  one  side  and  on  the  other  curled  jauntily 
up,  as  if  consciously  recurving  from  the  mass  of 
marvelous  bloom  and  foliage  under  it.  Dark-red 
tones  climbed  up  to  a  climax  of  quivering  green  and 
crimson  in  a  natural  and,  indeed,  inevitable  inflo- 
rescence. But,  engrossed  by  sundry  attractive  de- 
tails below  it,  his  attention  gave  him  a  concept  of  the 
millinery  vastly  more  vague  and  impressionistic 
than  ours. 

The  sunburst  of  hair  was  one  of  the  details.  It 
radiated  from  a  core  of  creamy  skin  from  some 
mystic  center  concealed  under  fluffy  laciness.  The 


14  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

ear,  too,  claimed  minute  attention.  It  was  a  marvel 
of  curves  and  sinuosities,  ivory  here,  pearl-pink 
there,  its  lines  winding  down  to  a  dainty  lobe  lit  by 
a  sunset  glow,  a  tiny  flame  from  the  lambent  fur- 
nace of  the  heart.  Cold  science  avers  that  these  fairy 
convolutions  are  designed  for  the  one  utilitarian 
purpose  of  concentrating  the  sound-waves  for  a 
more  efficient  impact  upon  the  auditory  nerve;  but 
this  is  crudely  false.  They  are  a  Cretan  labyrinth 
for  the  amazing  of  the  fancy  that  the  heart  may  be 
drawn  after — and  they  are  not  without  their  Mino- 
taur, either ! 

"Pshaw!"  said  he  to  himself.  "What  nonsense! 
I'll  finish  my  magazine !" 

This  good  resolution  was  at  once  acted  upon.  He 
turned  his  eyes  back  along  the  trail  by  which  they 
had  so  unwarrantably  wandered — along  the  line  of 
coiffure,  window,  landscape,  page,  Sappho;  describ- 
ing almost  a  complete  circle — or  quite.  As  he  re- 
traced this  path  so  virtuously,  the  living  picture 
shifted  and  threw  into  the  problem — for  a  problem 
it  had  now  become — certain  new  factors  which 
seemed  to  compel  a  readjustment  of  plans.  These 
were  a  fuller  view  of  the  cheek,  a  half  profile  of  the 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  15 

nose,  and  just  the  tiniest  tips  of  the  lips  and  chin. 
He  forgot  all  about  Sappho,  but  the  Sapphic  vibra- 
tions went  on  increasingly. 

The  profile — the  new  one — was,  so  far,  Greek, 
also.  It  was  still  so  averted  that  there  was  no  dan- 
ger in  amply  verifying  this  conclusion  by  a  prolonged 
gaze. 

No  danger? 

Foolhardy  man,  more  imminent  peril  never  put 
on  so  smooth  a  front !  Read  history,  rash  one,  and 
see  thrones  toppled  over,  dungeons  filled  with  pale 
captives,  deep  accursed  tarns  sending  up  bubbling 
cries  for  vengeance,  fleets  in  flames,  plains  ravaged, 
city  walls  beaten  down,  palaces  looted,  beauty 
dragged  at  the  heels  of  lust,  all  from  such  gazes  as 
this  of  thine.  And  if  you  object  to  history,  examine 
the  files  of  the  nearest  nisi  prius  court.  It  all  comes 
to  the  same  thing. 

Would  she  turn  the  deeper  seduction  of  those  eyes 
and  lips  to  view?  Seemingly  not,  for  with  every 
sway  of  the  car  they  retreated  farther  behind  the 
curve  of  the  cheek.  This  curve  was  fair  and 
rounded,  and  for  a  while  it  satisfied  the  inquiry. 
What  if  another  cheek  be  pressed  against  that  tinted 


16  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

snowy  fullness!  And  what  if  that  other  were  the 
cheek  we  wot  of ! 

Clearly,  said  the  inward  monitor,  this  will  never 
do !  This  Sappho- Aphrodite- Sunburst  Syndicate 
must  be  resisted. 

At  the  same  time — the  half  concealed  being  tra- 
ditionally the  most  potent  snare  of  the  devil — would 
it  not  be  in  every  way  safer,  as  well  as  more  satisfac- 
tory, to  have  a  full  view  of  the  face?  Were  there 
any  truth  in  the  theory  of  telepathy  the  thing  might 
be  accomplished.  A  strong  and  continuous  exercise 
of  the  will  acting  upon  that  other  will,  and  the 
thing  is  done. 

You  see  the  extent  to  which  the  nefarious  opera- 
tions of  the  syndicate  have  been  pushed?  Unaf- 
fected by  the  malign  influence  of  those  waves  meet- 
ing in  like  phases,  he  would  have  felt  himself  no 
more  at  liberty  to  do  this  thing  than  to  put  his  rude 
hand  under  the  dimpled  chin  and  ravish  a  look  from 
the  violated  eyes. 

For  all  that,  he  found  himself  fixing  his  will  upon 
the  turning  of  that  head.  He  fancied  he  saw  a  rosier 
glow  in  the  cheek  and  ear.  Surely  this  can  be  no  il- 
lusion— even  the  creamy  neck  glows  faintly  roseate. 
And  still  he  sent  out,  or  imagined  he  sent  out,  the 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  17 

thought- waves  commanding  the  face  \  o  turn.  And 
mingled  with  it  was  the  sense  of  battle  and  the  pre- 
vision of  victory. 

Slowly,  slowly,  like  a  blossom  toward  the  sun, 
the  head  turned,  the  eyes  directed  upward,  the  lips 
a  little  apart.  The  mouth,  the  chin,  the  Greek  nose, 
the  violet  eyes,  enthralled  him  for  a  moment,  and 
swung  back  out  of  sight  again.  He  had  won,  and, 
winning,  had  lost.  The  neck  was  rosy  now.  He  felt 
himself  tremble  as  once  more  she  turned  her  head 
until  the  fringed  mystery  of  those  upturned  eyes 
lay  open  to  his  gaze,  though  her  glance  never  really 
met  his.  He  saw,  in  one  intense,  lingering  look,  the 
blue  irises,  the  lighter  border  about  the  pupils,  the 
wondrous  rays  emanating  from  those  black,  mystic 
flowers;  he  saw  the  fine  dilated  nostrils,  the  rosy, 
perfect  lips;  he  saw  the  evanescent  quiver  of  allure- 
ment at  the  corners  of  the  mouth,  the  white  teeth 
just  glinting  from  their  warm  concealment.  He 
saw — 

"Oak  Grove!  All  out  for  Oak  Grove!  Remem- 
ber your  umbrellas  and  parcels !" 

Thus  the  brakeman  raucously  rescuing  the  vic- 
tims of  wave-interference.  Thus  Terminus  baffling 
Aphrodite.  Yet  not  without  a  struggle  do  the  sea- 


i8  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

born  goddess  and  the  sea-doomed  poet  surrender 
their  unaccomplished  task.  He  rose,  stepped  into 
the  aisle,  and  passed  her;  then  he  turned,  looked 
gravely  for  a  moment  into  her  eyes,  and  sadly  whis- 
pered, "Good-by!" 

If  surprised,  she  did  not  show  the  fact  by  the 
slightest  start.  Soberly  she  dropped  her  eyelids, 
seriously  she  raised  them,  and  with  the  manner  of 
one  who,  breaking  intimate  converse  at  the  parting- 
place,  bids  farewell  to  a  dear  companion,  she 
breathed,  "Good-by!" 

Said  the  lady  who  drove  him  from  the  station, 
"My  dear,  is  it  a  guilty  conscience  or  the  fate  of  the 
race  that  makes  you  so — abstracted  ?" 

"A  guilty  conscience,"  he  laughed,  laying  a  hand 
on  hers.  He  looked  after  the  flying  train,  and 
smiled,  and  sighed.  "After  all,"  he  added,  "I  believe 
it's  the  fate  of  the  race!" 

"Is  that  all?"  asked  the  Hired  Man. 

The  pipes  went  on  glowing  and  dying  like  little 
volcanoes  with  ephemeral  periods  of  activity  and 
quiescence.  The  campers  rose  one  by  one  and  went 
to  their  tents. 

"Wasn't  that  a  curious  tale?"  asked  the  Bride 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  19 

when  they  were  alone.    "What  do  you  suppose  made 
him  think  of  it  as  we  drove  along  ?" 

"Dunno,"  returned  the  Groom,  kissing  the  back  of 
her  neck.  "Don't  you  think  we'd  better  take  the  rear 
seat  to-morrow  ?" 


CHAPTER  II 

"T  SHALL  never,  never  be  able  to  feel  anything 

like  astonishment  again !" 

So  said  the  Bride  as  the  party  took  the  road  again 
after  two  days  at  Mammoth  Hot  Springs.  Bunsen 
Mountain  had  been  circumnavigated.  Cupid's  Cave 
had  charmed.  The  Devil's  Kitchen  had  stimulated  a 
flagging  faith  in  a  Personal  Adversary,  dealing  with 
material  utensils  of  vengeance.  The  Stygian  Cave, 
whose  deadly  vapors  had  strewed  its  floor  with  dead 
birds,  had  been  pronounced  another  of  his  devices 
and  satanically  "horrid."  The  iridescent  springs, 
each  of  which  has  built  up  its  own  basin,  like  hang- 
ing fountains,  were  compared  to  the  hanging  gar- 
dens of  Babylon,  and  pronounced  far  more  worthy 
of  place  among  the  wonders  of  the  world.  The 
lovely  Undine  Falls  had  comforted  them  with  pretti- 
ness  after  wildness;  and  the  ogreous  Hoodoo  Rocks 
had  turned  them  back  to  the  realm  of  shivers. 
The  Professor's  note-books  were  overflowing  with 

20 


YELLOWSTONE   NIGHTS  21 

memoranda;  and  Colonel  Baggs  alone  went  unas- 
tounded. 

"If  the  place  only  had  a  history,"  said  the  Minor 
Poet,  "like  the  Venusberg,  or  almost  any  spot  in 
Europe — " 

"Well/'  said  the  Colonel,  "it's  got  some  history, 
anyhow.  When  I  was  here  before — " 

"When  was  that  ?"  asked  the  Artist,  adding  a  line 
or  two  to  a  surreptitious  sketch  of  the  Colonel. 

"It  was  thirty-three  years  ago  the  latter  part  of 
this  month,"  said  the  Colonel.  "I  carried  a  knap- 
sack in  the  chase  after  Chief  Joseph  and  the  Nez 
Perces.  There  were  pretty  average  lively  times 
right  in  this  vicinity  with  the  first  tourists,  so  far  as 
I  know,  that  ever  came  into  the  Park.  Some  fellows 
had  been  up  in  the  Mount  Everts  country,  and  to  the 
lower  falls.  The  Nez  Perces  rushed  them.  A  fel- 
low named  Stewart  found  himself  looking  into  the 
muzzle  of  the  rifle  of  a  Nez  Perce,  and  made  the 
sign  of  the  cross.  The  red  with  the  gun,  being  a 
pretty  fair  Christian  as  Christians  go — the  tribe 
had  been  converted  for  thirty  years — as  conversions 
go — refrained  from  shooting  when  he  saw  the  sign. 
Stewart  had  a  horse  that  was  wild  and  hard  to  catch 
—  was  wounded  and  had  no  idea  he  could  get  within 


22  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

reach  of  the  steed;  but  when  he  called,  the  horse 
came  to  him  and  stood  for  him  to  climb  on,  for  the 
first  and  last  time  in  the  history  of  their  relations. 
Stewart  got  off  with  his  life." 

"Very  remarkable, "  said  the  Professor,  jotting 
down  a  note.  "Now,  how  do  you  account  for  that 
on  any  known  scientific  law?" 

"It  simply  wasn't  Stewart's  time,"  said  the  Colo- 
nel. "Or  there's  an  intelligence  that  operates  on 
other  intelligences — even  those  of  beasts — for  our 
protection.  Or  we  have  guardian  spirits  that  can 
tame  horses.  Take  your  choice,  Professor.  And 
right  here — maybe  where  we  are  camped — another 
bit  of  history  was  enacted  that  in  the  childhood  of 
the  race  might  ripen  into  one  of  those  legends  the 
artists  deplore  the  lack  of.  The  campers  here  had  a 
nigger  cook  named  Stone — Ben  Stone — I  arrested 
and  confined  for  giving  thanks  to  the  Lord  after  we 
picked  him  up.  He  was  here  at  Mammoth  Hot 
Springs  when  a  fellow — I  forget  his  name — was 
shot.  The  Nez  Perces  went  by  one  day  and  saw  him 
here.  Next  day  they  came  back  more  peeved  than 
before  and  shot  the  man.  Ben,  the  cook,  ran,  and 
they  after  him.  He  shinned  up  into  one  of  these 
trees— maybe  that  one  there.  The  Indians  lost 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  23 

sight  of  him,  and  stopped  under  the  tree  for  a  con- 
ference. Stone  nearly  died  of  fright  for  fear  they 
would  hear  his  heart  beating.  He  said  it  sounded 
like  a  horse  galloping  over  rocks.  They  gave  him  up 
and  went  away.  The  coast  being  clear,  a  bear — 
probably  an  ancestor  of  these  half -tamed  beasts  that 
the  Bride  photographed  last  evening — came  along 
and  began  snuffing  about  the  trees.  Ben's  heart 
began  galloping  again.  The  bear  reared  up  and 
stretched  as  if  he  meant  to  climb  the  tree.  Ben's 
heart  stopped.  After  a  while  the  bear  went  away. 
After  a  day  or  so  the  cook  came  into  our  camp  and 
went  about  giving  thanks  to  the  Lord  continually, 
and  howling  hallelujahs  until  nobody  could  sleep. 
So  we  put  him  under  guard,  and  I  watched  him 
under  orders  to  bust  his  head  if  he  bothered  the 
throne  of  grace  any  more." 

"The  army  is  an  irreverent  organization,"  said  the 
Professor. 

"It  isn't  what  you'd  call  devout,"  assented  the 
Colonel. 

"Confound  this  modern  world,  anyway!"  com- 
plained the  Poet.  "Five  hundred  years  ago,  we'd 
have  evolved  a  cycle  of  legends  out  of  those  occur- 
rences !" 


24  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

"The  tales  are  just  as  astonishing  without  leg- 
ends," insisted  the  Bride,  "as  anything  in  the  world, 
no  matter  how  deep  in  fable." 

Faring  on  southward,  they  passed  toward  Norris 
Basin  in  unastonished  quietude.  A  flock  of  pelicans 
on  Swan  Lake  created  no  sensation.  A  trio  of  elk 
in  Willow  Park  crossed  the  road  ahead  of  the  sur- 
rey with  no  further  effect  than  to  arouse  the  Artist 
to  some  remarks  on  their  anatomical  perfection,  and 
to  bring  to  the  surface  the  buried  note-book  of  Pro- 
fessor Boggs.  They  stopped  at  Apollinaris  Spring 
for  refreshment,  where  the  Groom  held  forth  on 
the  commercial  possibilities  of  the  waters,  if  the 
government  would  get  off  the  lid,  and  let  the  country 
be  developed. 

"Nix  on  this  conservation  game,"  said  he ;  and  no- 
body argued  with  him. 

At  Obsidian  Cliff,  Mr.  Driscoll  whoaed  up  his 
cayuses  to  call  the  attention  of  his  fares  to  the  fact 
that  here  is  the  only  glass  road  in  the  world. 

"Glass?"  queried  the  Professor,  alighting,  micro- 
scope in  hand.  "Really?" 

"Shore,"  assured  Aconite.  "They  cracked  the 
road  out  of  the  cliff  by  building  fires  to  heat  the  glass 
and  splashin'  cold  water  to  make  the  chunks  pop 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  25 

out — jelluk  breakin'  a  tumbler  washin'  up  the 
dishes." 

"Oh,  I  see/'  said  Professor  Boggs.  "Merely  ob- 
sidian/' 

"Merely!"  repeated  Aconite.  "Some  folks  always 
rreminds  me  of  the  folks  that  branded  old  Jim 
Bridger  as  a  liar  becuz  o'  what  he  told  of  this  here 
region  eighty  or  ninety  years  ago.  He  built  Fort 
Bridger,  and  Bridger's  Peak  was  named  after  him, 
and  he  discovered  Great  Salt  Lake,  and  I  guess  he 
wouldn't  lie.  He  found  this  glass  cliff  and  told 
about!  it  then — and  everybody  said  he  was  a  liar. 
An'  he  found  lots  o'  things  that  ain't  on  the  map. 
We  see  a  little  thread  o'  country  along  this  road,  but 
the  reel  wonders  of  this  Park  hain't  been  seen  sence 
Jim  Bridger's  time — an'  not  then.  W'y,  once  back 
in  this  glass  belt,  he  saw  an  elk  feedin'  in  plain  sight. 
Blazed  away  an'  missed  him.  Elk  kep'  on  feedin'. 
Blazed  away  ag'in.  Elk  unmoved.  Bridger  made  a 
rush  at  the  elk  with  his  knife,  and  run  smack  into 
a  mountain  of  this  glass  so  clear  that  he  couldn't  see 
it,  and  shaped  like  a  telescope  glass  that  brought 
things  close.  That  elk  was  twenty-five  miles  off." 

"Giddap!"  said  Colonel  Baggs  to  the  horses. 
"Time  to  be  on  our  way." 


26  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

"After  all/'  said  the  Poet,  "we  may  not  have  lost 
the  power  to  create  a  mythology." 

"Bridger  for  my  money,"  said  the  Artist,  with 
conviction. 

"Jim  Bridger  said  that,"  asserted  Aconite,  "an*  I 
believe  him.  They  found  Great  Salt  Lake  where  he 
said  it  was,  all  right,  an'  Bridger's  Peak,  an'  the  few 
things  we've  run  across  here.  You  wouldn't  believe 
a  mountain  would  whistle  like  a  steam  engine,  would 
yeh  ?  Well,  I'll  show  you  one — Roarin'  Mountain — 
in  less'n  four  miles  ahead — in  the  actual  act  of 
tootin'." 

"I  believe  all  you  said,  Mr.  Driscoll,"  said  the 
Bride  as  they  sat  about  the  fire  that  night.  "The 
glass  mountain,  the  elk  and  all.  After  those  in- 
describable Twin  Lakes,  the  Roaring  Mountain,  and 
the  Devil's  Frying  Pan,  stewing,  stewing,  century 
after  century — that's  what  makes  it  so  inconceivable 
— the  thought  of  time  and  eternity.  The  mountains 
are  here  for  ever — that's  plain;  but  these  things  in 
action — to  think  that  they  were  sizzling  and  spout- 
ing just  the  same  when  Mr.  Bridger  was  here  ninety 
years  ago,  and  a  million  years  before  that,  maybe — 
it  flabbergasts  me !" 

"Yes'm,"  said  Aconite.    "It  shore  do." 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  27 

"You're  it,  Bride !"  said  the  Hired  Man,  hand- 
ing her  a  slip  with  "Bride"  written  upon  it. 

"I'm  what?"  asked  the  Bride. 

"They've  sawed  the  story  off  on  you,"  returned 
the  Hired  Man.  "I  hope  you'll  give  a  better  one 
than  that  there  Poet  told.  I  couldn't  make  head  nor 
tail  to  that." 

"It  was  rotten,"  said  the  Poet,  looking  at  the 
Bride,  "wasn't  it?" 

"I'm  still  living  in  a  glass  house,"  said  the  Bride. 
"Don't  you  know  there's  only  one  story  a  bride  can 
tell?" 

"Tell  it,  tell  it !"  was  the  cry— from  all  but  the 
Poet  and  the  Groom. 

"I  think  I'll  retire,"  said  the  Groom. 

"Off  with  you  into  the  shadows,"  said  the  Poet. 
"I'll  contribute  my  last  cigar — and  we'll  smoke  the 
calumet  on  the  other  side  of  the  tree  where  we  can 
hear  unseen." 

About  them  the  earth  boiled  and  quivered  and 
spouted.  Little  wisps  of  steam  floated  through  the 
treetops.  There  were  rushings  and  spoutings  in  the 
air — for  they  were  in  the  Norris  Geyser  Basin.  And 
here  the  Bride,  sitting  in  the  circle  of  men,  her  feet 
curled  under  her  on  a  cushion  of  the  surrey  laid  on 


28  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

the  geyser-heated  ground,   fixed  her  eyes  on  the 
climbing  moon  and  told  her  story. 

THE  TRIUMPH  OF  BILLY  HELL 

THE  STORY  TOLD  BY  THE  BRIDE 

Now  that  so  many  of  the  girls  are  writing,  the 
desire  to  express  myself  in  that  way  comes  upon  me 
awfully  strongly,  sometimes. 

She  looked  at  the  Poet,  who  nodded  encourage- 
ment and  understanding. 

And  yet  a  novel  seems  so  complex  and  poky  in 
the  writing,  as  compared  with  a  play,  which  brings 
one  ever  so  much  more  exciting  success.  Louise 
Amerland  says  that  all  literature  is  autobiographical. 
If  this  is  so,  why  can't  I  use  my  own  romance  in 
making  a  play?  I  think  I  could,  if  I  could  once  get 
the  scenario  to — to  discharge,  as  Billy  says.  He 
calls  me  a  million  M.  F.  condenser  of  dramatic  elec- 
tricity, but  says  that  it's  all  statical,  when  it  ought  to 
flow.  But  the  scenario  must  be  possible,  if  I  could 
only  get  the  figures  and  events  juggled  about  into 
place.  There's  Billy  for  the  hero,  and  Pa,  and  the 
Pruntys,  and  me  for  the  heroine,  and  comic  figures 
like  the  butler  and  Miss  Crowley  and  Atkins,  and  the 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  29 

crowds  in  Lincoln  Park.  I  want  the  statue  of 
Lincoln  in  it  for  one  scene. 

"That  would  be  great,"  said  the  Artist. 

After  I  was  "finished"  at  St.  Cecilia's  I  went  into 
Pa's  office  as  his  secretary.  He  wasn't  very  enthusi- 
astic, but  I  insisted  on  account  of  the  sacredness  of 
labor  and  its  necessity  in  the  plan  of  woman's  life 
having  revealed  themselves  to  me  as  I  read  one  of 
Mrs.  Stetson's  books.  Pa  fumed,  and  said  I  bothered 
him ;  but  I  insisted,  and  after  a  while  I  became  pro- 
ficient as  a  stenographer,  and  spelled  such  terms  as 
"kilowatt,"  and  "microfarad,"  and  "electrolyte,"  in 
a  way  that  forced  encomiums  from  even  Pa.  Upon 
this  experience  I  based  many  deductions  as  to  the 
character  of  our  captains  of  industry,  one  of  which 
is  that  they  are  the  most  illogical  set  in  the  world, 
and  the  more  illogical  they  are  the  more  industry 
they  are  likely  to  captain. 

Take  Pa,  for  instance.  He  began  with  a  pair  of 
pliers,  a  pair  of  climbers,  a  lineman's  belt,  and  a  vast 
store  of  obstinacy;  and  he  has  built  up  the  Mid- 
Continent  Electric  Company — for  we  are  an  electric 
family,  though  Billy  says  magnetic  is  the  term. 

"Spare  me !"  prayed  the  Groom. 

But  how  does  Pa  order  his  life?  He  sends  me  to 


30  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

St.  Cecilia's,  which  has  no  function  but  to  prepare 
girls  for  the  social  swim,  and  is  so  exclusive  that  he 
had  to  lobby  shamefully  to  get  me  in:  and  all  the 
time  he  gloats — simply  gloats — over  the  memory 
of  the  pliers,  the  climbers,  the  lineman's  belt,  and  the 
obstinacy — no,  not  over  the  obstinacy,  of  course: 
that  is  merely  what  makes  him  gloat.  And  he  hates 
Armour  Institute  graduates  and  Tech  men  poison- 
ously,  and  wants  his  force  made  up  of  electricians 
who  have  come  up,  as  he  says,  by  hard  knocks,  and 
know  the  practical  side.  As  if  Billy  Helmerston — 
but  let  me  begin  at  the  beginning. 

I  was  in  the  office  one  day  superintending  Miss 
Crowley,  the  chief  stenographer,  in  getting  together 
the  correspondence  about  an  electric  light  and  power 
installation  in  Oklahoma,  when,  just  at  the  door  of 
the  private  office,  I  met  a  disreputable  figure  which 
towered  above  me  so  far  that  I  could  barely  make 
out  that  it  had  good  anatomical  lines  and  a  black 
patch  over  one  eye. 

I  will  here  deceive  no  one :  it  was  Billy.  He  ex- 
plained afterward  that  he  possessed  better  clothes, 
but  had  mislaid  them  somehow,  and  that  the  cut  over 
his  eye  he  got  in  quelling  a  pay-night  insurrection 
in  his  line-gang  out  in  Iowa,  one  of  whom  struck 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  31 

him  with  a  pair  of  four-hole  connectors.  I  am  sorry 
to  confess  that  I  once  felt  pride  in  the  fact  that  Billy 
knocked  the  linemen's  heads  together — and  yet  Pa 
talks  of  hard  knocks! — until  they  subsided,  the 
blood,  meanwhile,  running  all  down  over  his  face 
and  clothing  and  theirs.  It  was  very  brutal,  in  out- 
ward seeming,  no  matter  what  plea  of  necessity  may 
be  urged  for  it. 

I  almost  fell  back  into  the  doorway,  he  was  so 
near  and  so  big.  His  way  of  removing  his  abom- 
inable old  hat,  and  his  bow,  gave  me  a  queer  little 
mental  jolt,  it  was  so  graceful  and  elegant,  in  spite 
of  the  overalls  and  the  faded  shirt. 

"I  was  referred  to  this  place  as  Mr.  Blunt's 
office/'  said  he.  "Can  you  direct  me  to  him?" 

Now  Pa  is  as  hard  to  approach  as  any  Oriental 
potentate ;  but  I  supposed  that  Billy  was  one  of  the 
men  from  the  factory,  and  had  business,  and  I  was 
a  little  fluttered  by  the  wonderful  depth  and  sweet- 
ness of  his  voice;  so  I  just  said :  "This  way,  please" 
— and  took  him  in  to  where  Pa  was  sawing  the  air 
and  dictating  a  blood-curdling  letter  to  a  firm  of  con- 
tractors in  San  Francisco,  who  had  placed  them- 
selves outside  the  pale  of  humanity  by  failing  to  get 
results  from  our  new  Polyphase  Generator.  (Billy 


32  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

afterward  told  them  what  was  the  matter  with  it.) 
I  saw  that  my  workman  had  picked  out  an  exceed- 
ingly unpsychological  moment,  if  he  expected  to 
make  a  very  powerful  appeal  to  Pa's  finer  instincts. 

"Well,"  roared  Pa,  turning  on  him  with  as  much 
ferocity  as  if  he  had  been  a  San  Francisco  contractor 
of  the  deepest  dye,  "what  can  I  do  for  you,  sir  ?" 

"My  name  is  Helmerston,"  started  Billy. 

"I'm  not  getting  up  any  directory,"  shouted  Pa. 
"What  do  you  want?" 

"I'm  just  through  with  a  summer's  line-work  in 
the  West,"  answered  Billy,  "and  I  took  the  liberty  of 
applying  for  employment  in  your  factory.  I  have — " 

"The  blazes  you  did!"  ejaculated  Pa,  glaring  at 
Billy  from  under  his  eyebrows.  "How  did  you  get 
inhere?" 

I  was  over  at  the  filing-cases,  my  face  just  burn- 
ing, for  I  was  beginning  to  see  what  I  had  done. 
Billy  looked  in  my  direction,  and  as  our  eyes  met  he 
smiled  a  little. 

"I  hardly  know,  Mr.  Blunt,"  said  he.  "I  just  asked 
my  way  and  followed  directions.  Is  it  so  very  diffi- 
cult to  get  in?" 

I  saw  at  once  that  he  was  a  good  deal  decenter 
than  he  looked. 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  33 

"Well,  what  can  you  do?"  shouted  Pa. 

"Almost  anything,  I  hope,"  answered  Billy.  "I've 
had  no  practical  experience  with  inside  work ;  but  I 
have—" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  know !"  said  Pa,  in  that  unfeeling  way 
which  experience  and  success  seem  to  impart  to  the 
biggest-hearted  men — and  Pa  is  surely  one  of  these. 
"It's  the  old  story.  As  soon  as  a  dub  gets  so  he  can 
cut  over  a  rural  telephone,  or  put  in  an  extension- 
bell,  or  climb  a  twenty-five  without  getting  seasick, 
he  can  do  'almost  anything/  What  one,  definite, 
concrete  thing  can  you  do?" 

"For  one  thing,"  said  Billy  icily,  "I  think  I  could 
help  some  by  taking  a  broom  to  this  factory  floor 
out  here." 

"All  right,"  said  Pa,  after  looking  at  him  a  mo- 
ment. "The  broom  goes!  Give  this  man  an  order 
for  a  broom.  Put  him  on  the  pay-roll  at  seven  dol- 
lars a  week.  Find  out  who  let  him  in  here,  and  cau- 
tion whoever  it  was  against  letting  it  occur  again. 
Call  up  Mr.  Sweet,  and  tell  him  I  want  a  word  with 
him  on  those  Winnipeg  estimates.  Make  an  en- 
gagement with  Mr.  Bayley  of  the  street-car  com- 
pany to  lunch  with  me  at  the  club  at  two."  And  Pa 
was  running  in  his  groove  again. 


34  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  whispered,  as  he  passed  me  going 
out. 

"Thank  you,"  I  answered.  "It's  of  no  conse- 
quence— " 

And  then  I  noticed  that  he  was  looking  into  my 
eyes  in  a  wistful  and  pathetic  way,  as  if  protesting 
against  going  out.  I  blushed  as  I  showed  him  to  the 
door:  and  he  wasn't  the  first  whose  eyes  had  pro- 
tested, either. 

"You  mustn't  violate  the  rules,  Dolly,"  said  Pa, 
as  we  crossed  the  bridge  in  the  bubble,  going  home. 
"You  know  perfectly  well  that  I  can't  say  'no'  to 
these  tramps — " 

"He  wasn't  a  tramp,"  said  I. 

"A  perfect  hobo,"  answered  Pa.  "I  know  the 
type  well.  I  have  to  let  Burns  handle  them." 

"He  was  very  graceful,"  said  I. 

"Any  lineman  is,"  replied  Pa.  "They  have  the 
best  exercise  in  the  world.  If  he  steals  anything, 
you're  responsible,  my  dear." 

I  supposed  the  incident  to  be  closed  with  my  state- 
ment that  he  had  nice  eyes,  and  Pa's  sniff;  but,  in  a 
few  days,  Pa,  who  watches  the  men  like  a  cat,  sur- 
prised me  by  saying  that  my  graceful  hobo  was  all 
right. 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  35 

"He  gathered  up  and  saved  three  dollars'  worth 
of  beeswax  the  other  men  were  wasting,  the  first 
day,"  said  Pa.  "Melted  and  strained  and  put  it  in 
the  right  place  without  asking  any  questions.  And 
then  he  borrowed  a  blow-torch  and  an  iron,  and  be- 
gan practising  soldering  connections.  He  looks 
good  to  me." 

"Me,  too,"  said  I. 

"Blessed  be  the  hobo,"  said  the  Colonel,  "for  he 
shall  reach  paradise !" 

It  seems  strange,  now,  to  think  of  my  hearing 
these  things  unmoved.  The  dreadful  humiliation  to 
which  Billy  was  subjected,  the  noble  fortitude  with 
which  he  bore  it,  and  the  splendid  way  in  which  he 
uplifted  the  menial  tasks  to  which  he  was  assigned, 
have  always  reminded  me  of  Sir  Gareth  serving  as 
a  scullion  in  Arthur's  kitchen.  It  is  not  alone  in  the 
chronicles  of  chivalry — but  I  must  hasten  this  nar- 
rative. 

I  must  not  delay  even  to  inform  you  of  the  ways  in 
which  it  was  discovered  that  Billy  could  do  all  sorts 
of  things;  that  there  was  no  blue-print  through 
which  his  keen  eye  could  not  see,  and  no  engineer- 
ing error — like  that  in  the  Polyphase  Generator — 
that  he  couldn't  detect ;  or  how  he  was  pushed  up  and 


36  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

up  by  force  of  sheer  genius,  no  one  knowing  who  he 
was  until  he  found  himself,  like  an  eagle  among  buz- 
zards, at  the  head  of  a  department,  and  coming  into 
the  office  to  see  Pa  quite  in  a  legitimate  way. 

"Hooray!   Hooray !"  came  from  behind  the  tree. 

"Shut  up,  Poet!"  commanded  the  Artist,  "or  I'll 
come  back  there!" 

I  didn't  know  these  things  personally,  because  I 
had  left  the  office.  I  had  found  out  that  there 
seemed  to  be  more  soul-nurture  in  artistic  metal 
work  than  in  typewriting,  and  had  fitted  up  a  shop 
in  the  Fine  Arts  Building,  where  Louise  Amerland 
and  I  were  doing  perfectly  enchanting  stunts  in 
hammered  brass  and  copper — old  Roman  lamps  and 
Persian  lanterns,  after  designs  we  made  ourselves. 
Pa  parted  with  his  secretary  with  a  sigh,  the  nature 
of  which  may  be  a  question  better  left  unsettled. 

This  romance  really  begins  with  my  visit,  after 
months  and  months  of  absence,  to  the  restaurant 
which  I  had  dinged  at  Pa  until  he  had  instituted  for 
the  help.  I  told  him  that  the  social  side  of  labor  was 
neglected  shamefully,  and  for  the  work  people  to 
eat  at  the  same  table  with  their  superintendents  and 
employers  would  be  just  too  dear  and  democratic, 
and  he  finally  yielded  growlingly.  He  was  awfully 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  37 

pleased  afterward  when  the  papers  began  to  write 
the  thing  up.  He  said  it  was  the  cheapest  advertis- 
ing he  ever  got,  and  patted  me  on  the  shoulder  and 
asked  me  if  I  wasn't  ashamed  to  be  so  neglectful  of 
my  great  invention.  So  one  day  I  got  tired  of 
working  out  Rubaiyat  motifs  in  brass,  and  I  went 
over  to  the  cafe  for  luncheon,  incog.  And  what  do 
you  think?  Billy  came  in  and  sat  down  very  in- 
formally right  across  from  me ! 

"Hello !"  said  he,  putting  out  his  hand.  "I've  been 
looking  for  you  for  eons,  to — to  thank  you,  you 
know.  Don't  you  remember  me?" 

Before  I  knew  it  I  had  blushingly  given  him  my 
hand  for  a  moment. 

"Yes,"  I  replied,  taking  it  away,  and  assuming  a 
more  properly  dignified  air.  "I  hope  you  have  risen 
above  seven  a  week  and  a  broom;  and  I  am  glad  to 
see  that  your  head  has  healed  up." 

"Thank  you,"  he  replied.  "I  am  running  the  in- 
stallation department  of  the  dynamo  end  of  the  busi- 
ness. And  you?  I'm  no  end  glad  to  see  you  back. 
Did  you  get  canned  for  letting  me  in?  I've  had  a 
good  many  bad  half -hours  since  I  found  you  gone, 
thinking  of  you  out  hunting  a  job  on — on  my  ac- 
count. You — pardon  me — don't  look  like  a  girl  who 


38  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

would  have  the  E.  M.  F.  in  the  nerve-department  to 
go  out  and  compete,  you  know." 

I  was  amazed  at  the  creature's  effrontery,  at  first ; 
and  then  the  whole  situation  cleared  up  in  my  mind. 
I  saw  that  I  had  an  admirer  (that  was  plain)  who 
didn't  know  me  as  Rollin  Blunt's  heiress  at  all,  but 
only  as  a  shop-mate  in  the  Mid-Continent  Electric 
Company's  factory — a  stenographer  wh^  nad  done 
him  a  favor.  It  was  more  fun  than  most  girls  might 
think. 

"How  did  you  find  out,"  said  I,  "that  I  had  been 
— ah — canned?" 

"I  watched  for  you,"  he  replied.  "Began  as  soon 
as  my  promotion  to  the  switchboard  work  made  it  so 
I  could.  After  a  couple  of  months'  accumulation 
of  data  I  ventured  upon  the  generalization  that  the 
old  man — " 

"The  who?" 

"Mr.  Blunt,  I  mean,  of  course,"  he  amended,  "had 
fired  you  for  letting  me  in.  Out  of  work  long?" 

"N-no,"  said  I;  "hardly  a  week." 

"Where  are  you  now?"  he  asked. 

"I'm  in  a  shop,"  I  stammered,  "in  Michigan 
Avenue." 

I  looked  about  to  see  if  any  of  the  employees  who 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  39 

knew  me  were  present,  but  could  see  none  except 
Miss  Crowley,  who  wouldn't  meet  a  man  in  the  same 
office  in  a  year,  and  a  dynamo-man  never,  and  who 
is  near-sighted,  anyhow.  So  I  felt  safe  in  permit- 
ting him  to  deceive  himself.  It  is  thus  that  the  cen- 
turies of  oppression  which  women  have  endured 
impress  themselves  on  our  more  involuntary  actions 
in  little  bits  of  disingenuousness  against  which  we 
should  ever'  struggle.  At  the  time,  though,  to  sit 
chatting  with  him  in  the  informal  manner  of  co- 
laborers  at  the  noon  intermission  was  great  fun.  It 
was  then  that  I  began  to  notice  more  fully  what  a 
really  fine  figure  he  had,  and  how  brown  and  honest 
and  respectful  his  eyes  were,  even  when  he  said 
"Hello"  to  me,  as  if  I  were  a  telephone,  and  how 
thrilling  was  his  voice. 

"I'd  like,"  said  he,  "to  call  on  you— if  I  might." 

I  was  as  fluttered  as  the  veriest  little  chit  from  the 
country. 

"I — I  can't  very  well  receive  you,"  said  I.  "My 
— the  people  where  I — I  stop  wouldn't  like  it." 

"I'm  quite  a  respectable  sort  of  chap,"  said  he. 
"My  name's  Helmerston,  and  my  people  have  been 
pretty  well  known  for  two  or  three  hundred  years 
up  in  Vermont,  where  we  live — in  a  teaching, 


40  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

preaching,  book-writing,  rural  sort  of  way,  you 
know.  I'm  a  Tech  man — class  of  '08 — but  I  haven't 
anything  to  boast  of  on  any  score,  I'm  merely  tell- 
ing you  these  things,  because — because  there  seems 
to  be  no  one  else  to  tell  you,  and — and  I  want  you 
to  know  that  I'm  not  so  bad  as  I  looked  that  morn- 
ing." 

"Oh,  this  is  quite  absurd !"  cried  I.  "I  really — it 
doesn't  make  any  difference ;  but  I'm  quite  ready  to 
believe  it !  I  must  go,  really !" 

"May  I  see  you  to  your  car?"  said  he;  and  I 
started  to  tell  him  that  I  was  there  in  the  victoria, 
but  pulled  up,  and  took  the  street-car,  after  he  had 
extracted  from  me  the  information  that  I  lived  close 
to  Lincoln  Park.  But  when  he  asked  if  I  ever 
walked  in  the  park,  I  just  refused  to  say  any  more. 
One  really  must  save  one's  dignity  from  the  attacks 
of  such  people.  I  had  to  telephone  Roscoe  where  to 
come  with  the  victoria. 

Soon  after,  quite  by  accident,  I  saw  him  on  two 
successive  evenings  in  Lincoln  Park,  both  times  near 
the  Lincoln  statue.  I  wondered  if  my  mentioning 
the  south  entrance  had  anything  to  do  with  this. 
He  never  once  looked  at  the  motorists,  and  so  failed 
to  see  me ;  but  I  could  see  that  he  took  a  deep  interest 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  41 

in  the  promenaders — especially  slender  girls  with 
dainty  dresses  and  blond  hair.  It  appeared  almost 
as  if  he  were  looking  for  some  one  in  particular,  and 
I  smiled  at  the  thought  of  any  one  being  so  silly  as 
to  search  those  throngs  on  the  strength  of  any 
chance  hint  any  person  might  have  dropped.  I  was 
affected  by  the  pathos  of  it,  though.  It  seemed  so 
much  like  the  Saracen  lady  going  from  port  to  port 
hunting  for  Thomas  a  Becket's  father — though,  of 
course,  he  wasn't  any  one's  father  then,  but  I  can't 
think  of  his  name. 

The  next  evening  I  took  Atkins,  my  maid,  and 
walked  down  by  the  Lincoln  monument  to  look  at 
some  flowers.  It  seems  to  me  that  we  Chicagoans 
owe  it  to  ourselves  to  become  better  acquainted  with 
one  another — I  mean,  of  course,  better  acquainted 
with  our  great  parks  and  public  places  and  statues. 
They  are  really  very  beautiful,  and  something  to  be 
proud  of,  provided  as  they  are  for  rich  and  poor 
alike  by  a  paternal  government. 

Strangely  fortuitous  chance :  we  met  Billy ! 

"Well,  well!"  exclaimed  Aconite. 

He  came  striding  down  the  path  to  meet  me — 
Atkins  had  fallen  behind — his  face  perfectly  radiant 
with  real  joy. 


42  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

"At  last!"  he  ejaculated.  "I  wondered  if  we  were 
ever  to  meet  again,  Miss — Miss — " 

"Blunt,"  said  I,  heroically  truthful,  and  suppress- 
ing one  of  those  primordial  impulses  which  urged 
me  to  say  Wilkinson — now,  as  a  scientific  problem, 
why  Wilkinson?  But  I  did  not  wish  to  lose  Atkins' 
respect  by  conversing  with  a  man  who  did  not  know 
my  name. 

"Miss  Blunt?"  cried  he  interrogatively.  "That's 
rather  odd,  you  know.  It's  not  a  very  common 
name." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  I,  uncandid  again,  as 
soon  as  I  saw  a  chance  to  get  through  with  it — little 
cat.  "It  seems  awfully  common  to  me.  Why  do 
you  say  that  it's  odd?" 

"Because  I  happen  to  have  a  letter  of  introduction 
to  Miss  Blunt,  daughter  of  the  old — of  Mr.  Blunt 
of  the  Mid-Continent — " 

"You  have  ?"  I  broke  in.    "From  whom  ?" 

"From  my  cousin,  Amelia  Wyckoff,"  said  he, 
"who  went  to  school  with  her  at  St.  Cecilia's." 

"Well,  of  all  things!"  I  began;  and  then,  with  a 
lot  of  presence  of  mind,  I  think,  I  paused.  "Why 
don't  you  present  it  ?"  I  asked. 

"Well,  it's  this  way,"  said  Billy.    "You  saw  how 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  43 

Mr.  Blunt  sailed  into  me  and  put  me  in  the  broom- 
brigade  without  a  hearing  ?  I  didn't  have  the  letter 
then,  and  when  I  got  it  I  didn't  feel  like  pulling  on 
the  social  strings  when  I  was  coming  on  pretty  well 
for  a  dub  lineman  and  learning  the  business  from 
the  solder  on  the  floor  to  the  cupola,  by  actual  physi- 
cal contact.  And  then  there's  another  thing,  if  you'll 
let  me  say  it :  since  that  morning  I've  had  no  place  in 
my  thoughts  for  any  girl's  face  but  one." 

We  were  sitting  on  a  bench.  Atkins  was  looking 
at  the  baby  leopards  in  the  zoo,  ever  so  far  away. 
Billy  didn't  seem  to  miss  her.  He  was  looking  right 
at  me.  My  heart  fluttered  so  that  I  knew  my  voice 
would  quiver  if  I  spoke,  and  I  didn't  dare  to  move 
my  hands  for  fear  he  might  notice  their  trembling. 
The  idea  of  my  behaving  in  that  way ! 

I  was  glad  to  find  out  that  he  was  Amelia's 
cousin;  for  that  insured  his  social  standing.  That 
was  what  made  me  feel  so  sort  of  agitated.  One 
laborer  ought  not  to  feel  so  of  another,  for  we  are 
all  equal;  but  it  was  a  relief  to  know  that  he  was 
Amelia's  aunt's  son,  and  not  a  tramp. 

"I  must  be  allowed  to  call  on  you !"  he  said  with 
suppressed  intensity.  "You  don't  dislike  me  very 
much,  do  you?" 


44  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

"I — I  don't  like  cuts  over  the  eye/'  said  I,  evading 
the  question. 

"I  don't  have  'em  any  more,"  he  urged. 

And  then  he  explained  about  the  emeute  in  the 
line-gang,  and  the  four-hole  connectors,  and  con- 
fessed to  the  violent  and  sanguinary  manner  in 
which  he  had  felt  called  upon  to  put  down  the  up- 
rising. I  could  feel  my  face  grow  hot  and  cold  by 
turns,  like  Desdemona's  while  Othello  was  telling 
the  same  kind  of  things;  and  when  I  looked  for  the 
scar  on  his  forehead  he  bowed  his  head,  and  I  put 
the  curls  aside  and  found  it.  I  would  have  given 
worlds  to — it  was  so  much  like  a  baby  coming  up 
to  you  and  crying  about  thumping  its  head  and  ask- 
ing you  to  kiss  it  well.  Once  I  had  my  lips  all 
puckered  up — but  I  had  the  self-control  to  refrain — 
I  was  so  afraid. 

It  was  getting  dusk  now,  and  Billy  seized  my  hand 
and  kissed  it.  I  was  quite  indignant  until  he  ex- 
plained that  his  motives  were  perfectly  praise- 
worthy. Then  I  led  him  to  talk  of  the  rich  Miss 
Blunt  to  whom  he  had  a  letter  of  introduction,  and 
advised  him  to  present  it,  and  argued  with  appalling 
cogency  that  one  ought  to  marry  in  such  a  way  as  to 
better  one's  prospects,  and  Billy  got  perfectly  furious 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  45 

at  such  a  view  of  love  and  marriage — explaining, 
when  I  pretended  to  think  he  was  mad  at  me,  that 
he  knew  I  was  just  teasing.  And  then  he  began 
again  about  calling  on  me,  and  seeing  my  parents,  or 
guardians,  or  assigns,  or  any  one  that  he  ought  to 
see. 

"Because,"  said  he,  "you're  a  perfect  baby,  with 
a  baby's  blue  eyes  and  hair  of  floss,  and  tender  skin, 
and  trustfulness;  and  I  ought  to  be  horsewhipped 
for  sitting  here  in  the  park  with  you  in — in  this  way, 
with  no  one  paying  any  attention  but  Mr.  Lincoln, 
up  there." 

Then  I  did  feel  deeply,  darkly  crime-stained ;  and 
I  could  have  hugged  the  dear  fellow  for  his  sim- 
plicity— me  helpless,  with  Atkins,  and  the  knowledge 
of  Amelia  WyckofFs  letter;  not  to  mention  Mr. 
Lincoln — bless  him ! — or  a  park  policeman  who  had 
been  peeking  at  us  from  behind  a  bunch  of  cannas ! 
I  could  have  given  him  the  addresses  of  several 
gentlemen  who  might  have  certified  to  the  fact  that 
I  wasn't  the  only  one  whose  peace  of  mind  might 
have  been  considered  in  danger. 

I  grew  portentously  serious  just  before  I  went 
home,  and  told  Billy  that  he  must  see  me  on  my  own 
terms  or  not  at  all,  and  that  he  mustn't  follow  me, 


46  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

or  try  to  find  out  where  I  lived,  but  must  walk 
around  the  curve  to  the  path  and  let  me  mingle  with 
the  landscape. 

"May  I  not  hope,"  said  he,  "to  see  you  again 
soon?" 

"I  may  feed  the  elephant  some  peanuts,"  said  I, 
"on  Thursday  evening — no,  I  shall  play  in  a  mixed 
foursome,  and  then  dine  on  Thursday  afternoon  at 
the  Onwentsia — " 

"Where?"  said  he,  in  a  sort  of  astonished  way. 

"I  believe  I  could  make  you  believe  it,"  said  I 
with  more  presence  of  mind,  "if  I  stuck  to  it.  But 
I  can't  come  on  Thursday.  Let  us  say  on  Friday 
evening." 

He  insisted  that  Friday  is  unlucky,  and  we  com- 
promised on  Wednesday.  This  conversation  was 
on  Tuesday. 

"May  I  turn  for  just  one  look  at  my  little  wood 
nymph,"  said  he,  "when  I  get  to  the  curve?" 

Of  course  I  said  "Yes" — and  he  turned  at  the 
curve,  and  came  striding  back  with  such  a  light  in 
his  eyes  that  I  had  to  allow  him  to  kiss  my  hand 
again,  under  the  pretense  that  I  had  got  a  sliver  in 
my  finger. 

I  went  back  Wednesday,  and  again  and  again,  and 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  4? 

sneaked  off  once  with  him  to  an  orchestra  concert, 
and  it  wasn't  long  before  Billy  knew  that  his  little 
stenographer  was  willing  to  allow  him  to  hope.  But 
I  refused  to  let  him  call  it  an  engagement  until  he 
promised  me  that  he  would  present  the  letter  to  the 
other  Miss  Blunt. 

"Why,  Dolly?  Why,  sweetheart?"  he  asked;  for 
it  had  got  to  that  stage  now.  Oh,  it  progressed  with 
dizzying  rapidity ! 

"Because,"  I  replied,  "you  may  like  her  better 
than  you  do  me." 

"Impossible!"  he  cried  with  a  gesture  absolutely 
tragic  in  its  intensity.  "I  dislike  her  very  name — 
'Miss  Aurelia  Blunt!'" 

"That's  unjust !"  I  cried,  really  angry.  "Aurelia 
is  a  fine  name;  and  she  may  have  a  pet  name,  you 
know." 

"Only  one  Miss  Blunt  with  a  pet  name  for  little 
Willie!"  said  he.  "My  little  Dolly !" 

But  I  tied  him  down  with  a  promise  that  before  he 
saw  me  again  he'd  call  on  Aurelia.  When  I  saw  him 
next  he  looked  guilty,  and  said  he  had  found  her 
out  when  he  called.  I  scolded  him  cruelly,  and  made 
him  promise  again.  The  fact  was  that  when  he 
called  I  couldn't  find  it  in  my  heart  to  sink  to  the 


48  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

prosaic  level  of  Miss  Aurelia  Blunt.  I  had  had  the 
sweetest,  most  delicious  courtship  that  any  girl  ever 
had,  up  to  this  time,  and  I  was  afraid  of  spoiling  it 
all.  I  was  afraid  sort  of  on  general  principles,  you 
know,  and  so  was  "out."  And  after  he  went  away  I 
stole  down  into  the  park  in  my  electric  runabout 
and  talked  to  Mr.  Lincoln  about  it.  He  seemed  to 
know.  When  I  went  away,  I  left  a  little  kiss  on  the 
monument. 

Billy  was  perfectly  cringing  that  next  day  when 
he  had  to  confess  that  he  had  failed  on  what  he 
called  "this  Aurelia  proposition."  He  begged  to  be 
let  off. 

"You  see,"  said  he,  "she  may  give  me  a  frigid  re- 
ception, and  take  offense  at  my  delay  in  presenting 
this  letter.  Amelia  may  have  written  her,  and  she 
may  be  furious.  There  may  be  some  sort  of  social 
statute  of  limitations  on  letters  of  introduction,  and 
the  thing  may  have  run  out,  so  that  I'll  be  ejected  by 
the  servants,  dearie.  And,  anyhow,  it  will  place  me 
in  an  equivocal  position  with  Mr.  Blunt — my  com- 
ing to  him  as  a  tramp,  and  holding  so  very  lightly 
the  valuable  social  advantage  of  an  acquaintance 
with  the  family.  He  won't  remember  that  he 
jumped  on  me  with  both  feet  and  gave  me  six 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  49 

months  on  bread  and  water.  It — it  may  queer  me 
in  the  business." 

I  here  drew  myself  up  to  my  full  height,  and  froze 
him  as  I  have  seldom  done. 

"Mr.  Helmerston,"  said  I,  "I  have  indicated  to 
you  a  fact  which  I  had  supposed  might  have  some 
weight  with  you  as  against  sordid  and  merely  pru- 
dential considerations — I  mean  my  preferences  in 
this  matter.  It  seems,  however,  that — that  you 
don't  care  the  least  little  bit  what  /  want,  and  I  just 
know  that  you  don't — care  for  me  at  all  as  you  say 
you  do;  and  I'm  going  home  at  once!" 

Well,  he  was  so  abject,  and  so  sorry  to  have  given 
me  pain,  that  I  wanted  to  hug  him,  but  I  didn't. 

Oh,  I  almost  neglected  to  say  that  all  our  behavior 
had  been  of  the  most  proper  and  self-contained  sort. 
I  would  almost  be  willing  to  have  Miss  Feather- 
stonehaugh  at  St.  Cecilia's  use  a  kinetoscope  picture 
of  all  our  meetings  in  marking  me  in  deportment. 
Of  course,  conversations  in  parks  and  at  concerts 
do  not  lend  themselves  to  transports  very  well,  and 
the  kinetoscopes  do  not  reproduce  what  is  said,  do 
they?  Or  the  way  one  feels  when  one  is  grinding 
into  the  dust,  in  that  manner,  the  most  splendid 
fellow  in  the  whole  terrestrial  and  stellar  universe. 


SO  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

"I'll  go,  by  George!"  he  vowed.  "And  I'll  sit  on 
Aurelia's  doorstep  without  eating  or  drinking  until 
she  comes  home  and  kicks  me  down  the  stairs!"  I 
was  wondering  as  I  went  home  how  soon  he  would 
come;  but  I  was  astonished  to  learn  that  Mr.  Hel- 
merston  was  in  my  reception-room. 

"Hi  informed  'im,"  said  the  footman,  "that  you 
would  'ardly  be  'ome  within  a  reasonable  time  of 
waiting ;  but  'e  said  'e  would  remain  until  you  came, 
Miss,  nevertheless." 

I  went  down  to  him  just  as  I  was,  in  my  simple 
pique  dress,  wearing  the  violets  he  had  given  me. 
"Mr.  Helmerston,"  said  I,  "I  must  apologize  for  the 
difficulty  I  have  given  you  in  obtaining  the  very 
slight  boon  of  meeting  me,  and  say  how  good  you 
are  to  come  again — and  wait.  Any  friend  of  dearest 
Amelia's,  not  to  mention  her  cousin,  is — " 

He  had  stood  in  a  state  of  positive  paralysis  un- 
til now. 

"Dolly!  Dolly!  Dearest,  dearest  Dolly!"  he 
cried,  coming  up  to  me  and  taking — and  doing  what 
he  hadn't  had  a  chance  to  do  before.  "Oh,  my 
darling,  are  you  here  ?" 

After  quite  a  while  he  started  up  as  if  he  had  for- 
gotten something. 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  51 

"What  is  it?"  said  I.  "There  isn't  a  promenader 
or  a  policeman  this  side  of  the  park,  sweetheart !" 

"No,"  he  answered  after  another  interval — for 
I  hadn't  called  him  anything  like  that  before — "but 
I  was  thinking  that — that  Aurelia — is  a  long  time  in 
coming  home." 

"Why,  don't  you  know  yet,  you  goosey,"  said  I. 
"I'm  Aurelia!" 

And  this  brings  me  to  the  point  where  dalliance 
must  cease — most  of  the  time — while  the  drama 
takes  on  the  darker  tinge  given  it  by  Pa's  cruel 
obstinacy,  and  the  misdeeds  of  the  Pruntys — whom 
I  should  have  brought  on  in  the  first  act,  somehow, 
on  a  darkened  stage,  conspiring  across  it  over  a  black 
bottle,  and  once  in  a  while  getting  up  to  peek  up  and 
down  the  flies,  meanwhile  uttering  the  villain's 
sibilant  "Sh !"  I  don't  suppose  it  is  artistic,  from  the 
Augustus  Thomas  viewpoint,  but  I  wanted  the  hon- 
eyed sweets  of  this  courtship  of  mine  without  a  tang 
of  bitter;  and,  honestly  now,  isn't  it  a  lovely  little 
plot  for  a  love-drama  ? 

"Gee!"  exclaimed  the  Hired  Man.  "I  was  afraid 
you  was  through !" 

"I  am,"  said  the  Bride  softly,  "for  to-night.    If 


52  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

you'll  excuse  me  now.  Maybe  I'll  tell  the  rest  of  it 
at  the  next  camp — if  you  want  me  to." 

"I  assure  you/'  said  the  Professor,  "that  your  tale 
does  credit  to  your  teachers  in  elocution." 

"We  all  thank  you,"  said  the  Artist,  "for  what 
we've  had — and  won't  you  continue  at  the  next 
session — Scheherazade  ?" 

"I'll  see,"  said  she.  "Billy!  Where  are  you!" 

"I  have  mysteriously  disappeared,"  replied  the 
Groom  from  behind  the  tree.  "Come  hunt  me !" 


CHAPTER  III 

AT  the  behest  of  Aconite,  the  party  refrained 
from  expressions  of  more  than  mild  interest  at 
the  Norris  Basin.  Aconite  assured  them  that  they 
ought  to  save  their  strong  expressions  for  things 
farther  on.  The  Poet  wrote  some  verses  for  the 
purpose  of  creating  a  legend  to  account  for  the  fact 
that  the  Monarch  Geyser  ceased  to  spout  some  ten 
years  ago.  But  when  he  came  to  the  Growler,  and 
the  Hurricane,  and  the  new  Roaring  Holes,  which 
are  really  gigantic  steam  whistles,  he  dismounted 
from  his  Pegasus  and  threaded  his  way  through 
the  dead  forest — killed  by  escaping  steam — in  a 
trance  of  wonder.  But  Aconite's  advice  to  econ- 
omize language  until  the  Lower  Geyser  Basin  should 
be  reached  was  followed  so  far  as  superlatives  were 
concerned.  Night  found  them  scattered,  and  it  was 
only  when  they  took  the  road  once  more  that  the 
party  was  whole  again.  The  Artist  stopped  the 
surrey  at  the  Gibbon  Paint  Pots  so  that  he  might 
use  some  of  their  bubbling  sediment  as  a  pigment 

S3 


54  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

with  which  to  paint  a  souvenir  picture  for  each  of 
the  party.  Canons,  boiling  springs  and  waterfalls — 
rocks,  mountains,  wild  beauty  on  every  hand — all 
these  they  were  assured  were  inconsiderable  parts  of 
the  prelude  to  the  marvels  awaiting  them  at  the  next 
halt.  But  when  they  came  to  the  crossing  of  Nez 
Perce  Creek,  the  Bride  expressed  a  desire  to  wait, 
to  stop,  to  rest  her  eyes  and  quiet  her  spirits  before 
anything  more  striking  should  be  imposed  upon  her 
powers  of  observation. 

"I  fell  like  Olger  the  Dane  and  King  Desiderio, 
when  they  watched  on  the  tower  for  Charlemagne ; 
and  if  we  go  on,  I  shall,  like  Olger,  fall  'as  one  dead 
at  Desiderio's  feet !'  " 

The  Poet  looked  in  the  Bride's  eyes,  and  nodded 
sympathetically.  Mr.  Driscoll  pondered  the  mys- 
teries of  the  Bride's  statement  for  a  while,  and 
threw  down  his  lines. 

"If  that's  the  way  the  Bride  feels,"  said  he,  "we'll 
stop  here  and  grub  our  systems  up  a  little." 

"The  champion  hard-luck  story  of  this  or  any 
other  age,"  said  the  Colonel,  as  they  lighted  their 
pipes  after  dinner,  "was  enacted  right  up  this  creek 
in  that  Nez  Perce  uprising  wherein  I  fought  and 
bled  and  died." 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  55 

"More  matter  for  myths/'  said  the  Artist.  "Let's 
have  it,  e'en  though  it  be  as  dolorous  as  the  tale  of 
the  Patient  Griselda." 

"I  don't  recall  more  of  Griselda's  story,"  said  the 
Colonel,  "than  that  she  was  given  the  worst  of  it  by 
her  husband,  the  king.  But  this  Nez  Perce  Creek 
story  isn't  any  tale  of  the  perfidy  of  our  nearest  and 
dearest,  but  of  things  just  unanimously  breaking 
bad  for  a  man  from  Radersburg,  Mr.  Cowan.  He 
and  his  wife  and  some  friends  were  camped  down 
here  a  couple  of  miles  at  the  Lower  Geyser  Basin, 
right  close  by  the  Fountain  Geyser,  just  beyond  the 
hotel — only  there  wasn't  any  hotel  yet  for  thirty 
years.  Chief  Joseph  and  his  Nez  Perces  came 
through  trying  to  get  away  from  the  United  States. 
They  picked  up  the  Cowan  party,  and  brought  them 
right  along  where  we  now l  are,  and  a  few  miles  up 
this  creek,  where  Joseph,  Looking-Glass,  and  the 
other  chiefs  held  a  conference  and  decided  to  let  the 
Cowan  party  go,  after  destroying  their  transporta- 
tion system  by  cutting  the  spokes  out  of  their  bug- 
gies. This  they  did,  and  the  Indians  went  on.  Some 
of  the  bucks,  feeling  that  it  was  careless  of  the  chiefs 
to  overlook  a  bet  like  this,  came  back,  and  in  process 
of  correcting  their  leaders'  mistake  shot  Mr.  Cowan 


56  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

in  the  thigh — which  was  bad  luck  Item  one.  He 
slipped  from  his  horse,  stunned  by  the  shock,  and  his 
wife  ran  to  him  and  tried  to  shelter  him  from 
further  harm.  But  in  spite  of  her  efforts  another 
Indian  shot  him  in  the  head,  holding  his  rifle  so  close 
that  the  powder  burned  the  flesh.  He  was  not  killed, 
however,  though  all  parties  to  the  affair  supposed  he 
was,  and  Mrs.  Cowan  was  removed  from  the  corpse 
to  which  she  clung,  and  carried  away  by  her  friends. 
You  see,  the  Indians  were  not  unanimously  for  these 
killings,  and  allowed  most  of  the  whites  to  go.  The 
Indians  threw  a  cord  or  so  of  rocks  on  Cowan's  head 
and  went  on  with  a  consciousness  of  good  work  well 
and  thoroughly  done. 

"Cowan  revived,  pulled  his  head  from  among  the 
rocks,  and  drew  himself  to  a  standing  posture  by  the 
limb  of  a  tree.  An  Indian  happening  along,  shot  him 
with  much  care  in  the  back,  and  left  him  for  dead 
again. 

"Cowan,  however,  refused  to  die,  and  though 
without  food,  and  wounded  in  the  thigh,  the  head, 
and  the  back,  and  with  his  head  hammered  to  a  jelly 
by  the  rocks  thrown  on  it,  started  to  crawl  back  to 
camp.  He  met  Indians,  and  hid  from  them.  He 
crawled  day  after  day — being  unable  to  walk  a  step. 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  57 

He  had  a  chance — for  an  uninjured  man — to  catch  a 
Nez  Perce  pony  which  had  been  abandoned,  but 
could  not  walk.  Hard  luck,  indeed !  He  met  a  body 
of  friendly  Bannock  scouts  who  would  have  taken 
care  of  him,  but  he  supposed  them  to  be  hostiles  and 
hid  from  them.  Harder  luck  still !  After  crawling 
seven  or  eight  miles,  which  took  several  days,  he 
reached  his  old  camp  and  there  was  reunited  to  his 
faithful  dog,  which  at  first  snapped  at  and  then 
welcomed  him. 

"At  the  camp  his  first  good  luck  came — he  found 
matches,  coffee  and  some  food — not  to  mention  the 
dog,  which  I  venture  to  state  helped  him  almost  as 
much  as  the  provisions.  Next  day  he  met  some 
scouts  sent  out  to  trail  the  hostiles  and  incidentally 
with  instructions  to  bury  Cowan — but  they  praised 
him  instead.  They  fixed  him  up  as  well  as  they 
could,  and  left  him  by  their  camp-fire  to  await  the 
coming  of  General  Howard  with  the  main  body  of 
troops.  The  ground  was  peaty,  and  full  of  dead 
vegetable  matter,  and  after  a  nap,  Cowan  awakened 
to  find  that  the  earth  all  about  him  was  on  fire,  and 
wounded  as  he  was  he  had  to  roll  out  of  the  fire 
zone,  getting  burned  scandalously  as  he  rolled." 


58  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

"Here/'  said  the  Hired  Man.  "You  tell  the  rest 
of  this  to  marines !" 

"I'm  telling  you/'  said  the  Colonel,  "the  historic 
truth.  General  Howard  came  along  and  the  sur- 
geons gave  Cowan  all  the  care  they  were  able  to 
afford  him.  They  took  him  up  to  Bottler's  Ranch, 
north  of  the  Park,  and  there  Mrs.  Cowan  rejoined 
the  remains  and  fragments  of  her  still  living  spouse. 
They  went  to  Bozeman  after  a  while,  carrying 
Cowan  in  a  wagon.  At  the  top  of  the  hill  down 
which  they  had  to  go,  the  neck-yoke  broke  and  the 
horses  ran  away,  and  spilled  Cowan  out  on  the  rocks 
and  the  generally  unyielding  surface  of  Montana.  A 
conveyance  was  brought  from  Bozeman,  and  the 
much-murdered  man  was  taken  to  a  hotel." 

"Thank  God !"  breathed  the  Poet.  "Even  a  Mon- 
tana hotel  was  a  sweet  boon  as  bringing  the  end  of 
these  troubles." 

"Who  said  it  was  the  end?"  inquired  the  Colonel. 
"It  wasn't.  In  the  hotel  at  Bozeman  his  hoodoo 
haunted  him.  People  flocked  to  the  hotel  to  see  him. 
If  the  vaudeville  stage  had  been  invented  then  in  its 
present  form,  he  could  have  made  a  fortune.  They 
crowded  into  his  room  and  sat  on  his  bed.  The  bed 
collapsed,  and  Cowan  was  hurled  to  the  floor  and 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  59 

killed  again.  The  hotel-keeper,  seeing  that  even  a 
cat's  supply  of  lives  must  be  about  used  up,  ordered 
the  crowd  out  of  the  place.  He  said  he  thought  of 
throwing  Cowan  out,  too,  being  afraid  his  hotel 
would  burn  up,  or  be  blown  away,  or  something, 
with  such  a  Jonah  aboard.  But  Cowan  succeeded  in 
getting  home.  They  asked  him  if  he  didn't  often 
think  of  his  soul's  salvation  while  enduring  all  these 
sufferings  and  passing  through  all  these  perils.  'Not 
by  a  damned  sight !'  said  the  unreconstructed  sinner. 
*I  had  more  important  things  to  think  of !' ' 

"And  all  that  took  place  right  here?"  asked  the 
Bride. 

"Here  and  hereabouts,"  answered  the  Colonel.  "I 
was  here  about  the  time,  and  I  know." 

"If  Jim  Bridger,"  said  Aconite,  "had  narrated 
them  adventures,  what  would  folks  have  said  ?  And 
yet,  the  Colonel's  correct.  The  tale  are  true !" 

"Here's  where  you  can  sleep  under  a  roof,  Bride," 
said  the  Hired  Man,  as  they  made  camp  at  the  Lower 
Geyser  Basin. 

"So  you  don't  want  the  rest  of  the  story?"  she 
queried. 

"Ma'am,"  said  the  Hired  Man.  "We  should  all  be 
darned  sorry  to  lose  you  from  the  camp;  but — " 


60  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

"But  me  no  buts,"  said  the  Bride.  "I  stay  with 
the — with — the  what  do  you  call  it,  Mr.  Driscoll, 
that  I'm  staying  with  ?" 

"The  outfit,  Miss  Bride,"  said  Aconite.  "And  the 
outfit's  shore  honored/'  And  after  the  tasks  of 
camp  had  been  done,  amid  the  strange  and  daunting 
surroundings  of  the  wonderful  geyser  basin,  when 
the  camp  reached  that  lull  that  precedes  slumber, 
and  which  over  all  the  world,  whether  on  prairie,  in 
forest,  or  on  desert,  is  devoted  to  tobacco,  music 
and  tales,  the  Bride  went  on  with  her  story. 


THE  TRIUMPH  OF  BILLY  HELL 

THE  SECOND  PART  OF  THE  BRIDE*S  STORY 

The  Pruntys  live  near  Saint  Joe,  where  they  have 
a  town  and  stockyards  and  grain-elevators,  and 
thousands  and  thousands  of  acres  of  land  all  of 
their  own,  just  like  mediaeval  barons — only  instead 
of  having  a  castle  with  a  donjon-keep  with  battle- 
ments and  mysterious  oubliettes  and  drizzly  cells  and 
a  moat,  they  live  in  a  great  wooden  house  with 
verandas  all  round,  and  of  a  sort  of  composite  ar- 
chitecture— Billy  says  that  it  is  Queen  Anne  in  front 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  61 

and  Mary  Ann  at  the  rear — and  hot  and  cold  water 
in  every  room,  and  with  a  stone  windmill-tower 
with  a  wheel  on  the  top  that  you  couldn't  possibly  put 
in  a  picture,  it  is  so  round  and  machiney-looking. 
Old  Mr.  Prunty  says  it  cost  twenty-seven  thousand 
five  hundred  and  eighty-three  dollars  and  thirty-six 
cents — says  it  every  chance  he  gets,  without  the 
variation  of  a  cent.  The  Pruntys  are  scandalously 
rich.  Their  riches  bought  them  a  place  in  this  play. 
When  Pa  had  begun  to  forge  to  the  front  in 
Peoria,  where  he  began,  he  had  all  the  knack  he  ever 
possessed  for  getting  business,  but  he  didn't  have 
much  money.  I  don't  see  any  reason  why  we 
shouldn't  confess  this  here.  So  he  went  to  old  Mr. 
Prunty,  with  whom  he  had  become  acquainted  while 
he  was  putting  in  a  town  lighting-plant  in  the  Prunty 
private  village,  and  showed  him  how  remunerative 
it  would  be  to  put  money  into  Pa's  business.  This 
Mr.  Prunty  did,  and  I  once  saw  the  balance-sheet 
showing  the  profits  he  made.  They  were  something 
frightful  to  a  mind  alive  to  the  evils  of  the  concen- 
tration of  wealth — and  the  necessity  of  dividing  with 
other  people ;  but  I  shouldn't  care  so  much  for  that, 
I  am  afraid,  if  it  hadn't  brought  us  into  relations 
with  Enos  Prunty,  Junior,  who  was  brought  up  to 


62  YELLOWSTONE   NIGHTS 

the  business  of  taking  over  the  Mid-Continent  Elec- 
tric Company,  and  incidentally,  me.  The  very  idea ! 

I  must  not  be  disingenuous  any  more,  and  there- 
fore I  will  admit  that  at  one  time  I  should  have  con- 
sented to  the  merger  if  it  hadn't  been  for  Enos' 
perfectly  impossible  name.  Not  that  I  loved  him; 
not  at  all.  But  he  wasn't  bad  looking,  and  he  had 
overcome  a  good  deal  of  the  Prunty  gaucherie — I 
should  think  he  ought  to,  the  schools  he  had  been 
through — and  a  girl  really  does  like  to  think  of 
trousseaux,  and  establishments  and  the  like.  One 
day,  though,  I  hired  a  card-writer  on  the  street  to 
write  out  for  me  the  name,  "Mrs.  Enos  Prunty,  Jr.," 
upon  looking  at  which  I  fled  as  from  a  pestilence, 
and  threw  it  into  the  grate,  and  had  a  fire  kindled, 
although  it  was  one  of  those  awful  days  when  the 
coroner  never  can  tell  whether  it  was  the  heat  or  the 
humidity. 

I  had  met  Billy  in  the  restaurant  the  day  before. 

But  Pa  liked  Enos,  and  sort  of  treated  the  matter 
as  if  it  were  all  arranged ;  and  when  Billy  came  into 
the  spotlight  as  our  social  superior — which  the  Hel- 
merstons  would  be  by  any  of  the  old  and  outworn 
standards — I  began  to  pet  Pa  one  evening,  and  ask 
him  how  he  liked  Mr.  Helmerston;  whereupon  Pa 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  63 

exploded  with  a  terrific  detonation,  and  said  he 
wanted  the  relations  of  Mr.  Helmerston  with  the 
Blunt  family  confined  strictly  to  the  field  of  busi- 
ness ;  that  he  hated  and  despised  all  the  insufferable 
breed  of  dubs — I  never  could  get  Pa  to  say  "cad" — 
who  crept  into  employments  like  spies,  under  false 
pretenses,  and  called  an  Institute  of  Technology  a 
"Tech,"  and  looked  down  on  better  electricians  who 
had  come  up  by  hard  knocks.  And  Pa  insisted  that 
a  man  must  have  been  pretty  tough  who  had  ac- 
quired in  college  circles  from  the  Atlantic  to  the 
Missouri  the  nom  de  guerre  of  "Billy  Hell." 

Pa  is  a  good  business  man,  and  has  exceptional 
facilities  for  looking  up  people's  records;  but  it 
seemed  a  little  sneaky  to  use  them  on  Billy,  and  to 
know  so  much,  when  we  were  so  sure  he  never  sus- 
pected a  thing.  I  told  him  so,  too,  but  all  he  said 
was  "Huh."  I  was  very  angry,  and  when  Mr. 
Prunty,  Junior,  came  to  see  me  next  time  I  repulsed 
his  addresses  with  such  scorn  that  he  went  away  in 
a  passion.  He  said  he  laid  no  claim  to  being  a  hu- 
man being,  but  he  was,  at  least,  a  member  of  the 
animal  kingdom,  and  that  my  way  of  treating  him 
would  have  been  inhuman  had  he  been  a  toadstool. 
I  retorted  that  I'd  concede  him  a  place  among  the 


64  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

mushrooms — fancy  my  twitting  any  one  of  mush- 
roomery!  But  the  old-family  attitude  of  the  Hel- 
merstons  was  getting  into  my  mental  system. 

Pa,  in  the  meantime,  was  preparing  to  shunt  Billy 
off  to  Mexico  to  superintend  the  installation  of  the 
Guadalanahuato  power  plant — a  two  years'  job — at 
a  splendid  salary.  But  our  Mr.  Burns  went  over  to 
the  Universal  Electric  Company  (after  we  had  made 
him  what  he  was!)  and  Mr.  Aplin  proved  quite  in- 
capable of  running  the  business,  although  he  was 
such  a  genius  in  watts  and  farads  and  ohms  and  the 
coefficient  of  self-induction,  and  Billy  was  simply 
forked  into  the  general  charge  of  the  main  office, 
against  his  will,  and  shockingly  against  Pa's. 

I  forgot  to  say  that  Pa  was  ill,  and  confined  to  his 
room  for  a  long  time.  This  touches  a  tender  spot  in 
Pa's  feelings,  but  the  truth  must  be  told;  and  you 
must  understand  that  all  his  illness  came  from  an 
ingrowing  toe-nail.  He  had  to  have  an  operation,  and 
then  he  had  to  stay  in  the  house  because  it  wouldn't 
heal;  and  there  he  was,  using  language  which  is 
really  scandalous  for  a  good  church- worker  like  Pa, 
while  Billy  attended  to  the  business. 

I  heaped  coals  of  fire  on  Pa's  head  by  staying  with 
him  hooirs  and  hours  every  day,  and  reading  to  him, 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  65 

until  he  asked  me  for  goodness'  sake  to  stop  until 
he  got  the  cross-talk  out  of  his  receiver.  I  said  I'd 
be  glad  to  dispense  with  all  his  cross  talk,  and  he 
said :  "There,  now,  don't  cry" — and  we  had  a  regu- 
lar love  feast.  Pa  was  a  little  difficult  at  this  period. 
However,  that  day  he  got  more  confidential  than  he 
ever  was  before,  and  told  me  that  serious  business 
troubles  were  piling  up,  and  worried  him.  We  were 
likely,  he  said,  to  be  spared  the  disgrace  of  dying 
rich.  This  was  irony,  for  Pa  despises  this  new  idea 
that  one  should  apologize  for  one's  success. 

He  went  on  to  tell  me  that  Mr.  Prunty  had  al- 
ways had  the  most  stock  in  the  Mid-Continent,  and 
that  now  that  Enos  had  got  so  conceited  about  being 
able  to  run  the  business,  and  not  being  allowed  to, 
the  Pruntys  seemed  to  want  the  whole  thing,  and 
hinted  around  about  withdrawing,  or  buying  Pa  out. 

I  have  this  scene  all  in  my  mind  for  the  play, 
with  me  sitting  in  "a  dim  religious  light"  and  listen- 
ing to  the  recital  of  our  ruin  and  crying  over  Pa's 
sore  foot.  I  did  cry  a  good  deal  about  this,  truly, 
for  I  knew  perfectly  well  that  it  was  the  nasty  way 
I  had  treated  Enos  that  made  them  so  mean ;  but  I 
still  wished  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart  that  he 
would  come  back  so  I  could  search  my  soul  for 


66  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

worse  things  to  do  to  him.  I  told  Billy  about  this 
trouble,  and  explained  that  Pa  couldn't  possibly  raise 
money  to  buy  out  the  Pruntys,  and  that  they  could 
be  calculated  upon  not  to  pay  Pa  anything  like  what 
his  stock  was  worth. 

"I  see/'  said  Billy,  "you  are  being  squeezed  by 
the  stronger  party." 

He  was  looking  out  of  the  window  in  an  ab- 
stracted sort  of  way,  but  he  came  to  when  I  an- 
swered that,  personally,  I  hadn't  been  conscious  of 
anything  of  the  sort. 

When  the  conversation  got  around  to  the  business 
again,  Billy  told  me  that  Goucher — a  Missourian 
that  the  Pruntys  had  injected  into  the  business,  and 
who  was  perfectly  slavish  in  his  subserviency  to 
Enos — had  been  quizzing  around  Billy,  trying  to 
find  out  what  ailed  Pa,  and  if  it  was  anything 
serious. 

"I  didn't  like  the  little  emissary,"  said  Billy,  "and 
so  I  told  him  that  Mr.  Blunt  was  precariously  ill, 
with  a  complication  of  Bright's  disease  in  its  tertiary 
stage,  and  locomotor  ataxia.  He  wrote  down  the 
Bright's  disease  and  asked  me  how  to  spell  the  other. 
I  told  him  that  the  Bright's  disease  would  probably 
terminate  fatally  before  he  could  master  so  much 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  67 

orthography;  and  still  he  didn't  tumble!  Goucher 
went  away  conscious  of  having  performed  well  an 
important  piece  of  work.  I  can't  help  thinking  now 
that  this  incident  has  more  significance  than  I  then 
supposed." 

He  sat  puckering  up  his  brows  for  a  long  time, 
and  I  let  him  pucker. 

At  last  he  said :  "Dolly,  I  shouldn't  a  bit  wonder 
if  they  are  trying  to  take  some  advantage  of  a  dying 
man.  I  can  see  how  they  work  the  problem  out. 
'Here  is  a  sick  man/  they  say,  'who  has  been  doing 
the  work  of  half  a  dozen  for  twenty  years.  He  is 
going  to  pieces  physically.  If  he  has  some  fatal  dis- 
ease, and  knows  it,  we  can  settle  with  him,  and  make 
him  pay  a  few  hundred  thousand  dollars  for  the  priv- 
ilege of  getting  his  daughter's  inheritance  disentan- 
gled from  a  business  which  she  can't  run,  and  in 
which  she  will  be  at  the  mercy  of — of  people  with 
whom  her  relations  are  a  little  strained.  But  first, 
we'll  find  out  just  how  sick  he  is,  and  whether  he's 
likely  to  get  well  soon,  or  at  all.'  And  so  they  send 
Goucher  mousing  about;  and  he  reports  Bright's 
disease,  and  something  else  he  can't  spell,  and  they 
make  an  appointment  with  Helmerston  for  to-mor- 
row morning  to  find  out  more  about  it,  Mr.  Goucher 


68  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

not  being  very  clear.  And  your  father's  rather  fierce 
manner  of  hiding  what  his  ailment  really  is  makes 
them  all  the  more  suspicious." 

"You  tell  them,"  said  I,  firing  up,  "that  Pa  is  still 
able—" 

But  I  saw  that  Billy  had  one  of  those  epoch-mak- 
ing ideas  which  mark  the  crises  of  history,  and  I 
stopped  spellbound.  He  finally  struck  himself  a  fear- 
ful blow  upon  the  knee,  and  said  that  he  had  it,  and 
one  looking  at  him  could  easily  believe  it.  Then  he 
explained  to  me  his  plan  for  discomfiting  the 
Pruntys  and  hoisting  them  by  their  own  petard. 
This  is  deeply  psychological,  being  based  upon  an 
intuitive  perception  of  what  a  Prunty  would  do 
when  he  believed  certain  things  and  had  money  at 
stake. 

"I  must  take  responsibility  in  this,"  said  Billy, 
squaring  his  shoulders,  "and  bet  my  job  on  my  suc- 
cess, and  put  our  happiness  in  jeopardy.  But,  if  we 
win,  Mr.  Blunt  can  never  again  say  that  I  am  an 
engineer  only,  with  no  head  for  practical  business; 
and  I  shall  have  outlived  the  disgrace  of  my  Tech 
training — and  the  nickname.  You  must  handle  your 
father,  and  keep  me  informed  of  any  engagement 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  69 

the  Pruntys  make  with  him.    I  must  do  the  rest. 
And,  if  I  lose,  it's  back  to  climbing  poles  again !" 

I  asked  Billy  if  I  couldn't  do  something  in  line 
work,  and  he  said  I  might  carry  the  pliers.  And 
when  I  said  I  meant  it,  he  behaved  beautifully,  and 
called  me  his  angel,  and — and  violated  the  rules,  you 
know — and  went  away  in  a  perfect  frenzy  of  deter- 
mination. I  felt  a  solemn  joy  in  spying  on  Pa  and 
reporting  to  Billy.  It  seemed  like  a  foretaste  of  a 
life  all  bound  up  and  merged  with  his.  And  this  is 
what  took  place : 

The  elder  Mr.  Prunty  called  on  Billy  and  said  he 
was  appalled  at  the  news  Mr.  Goucher  brought  that 
Mr.  Blunt  had  Bright's  disease ;  and  was  there  any 
hope  that  the  doctors  might  be  mistaken  ? 

Billy  told  him  that  the  recent  progress  in  bacterio- 
logical science,  with  which  Mr.  Prunty  was  no  doubt 
fully  conversant,  seemed  to  make  the  diagnosis  a 
cinch.  By  this  he  meant  that  they  were  sure  about  it 

"I  see,"  said  the  driver.  "I've  heared  the  word 
afore." 

He  used  a  term  that  Mr.  Prunty  understood, 
Billy  said,  owing  to  his  having  done  business  all  his 
life  with  reference  to  it. 


70  YELLOWSTONE   NIGHTS 

Mr.  Prunty  suggested  that  people  live  a  long  time 
with  Bright's  disease,  sometimes. 

Billy,  who  is  really  a  great  actor,  here  grew  mys- 
terious, and  told  Mr.  Prunty  that,  being  mixed  up 
with  Mr.  Blunt  in  business,  it  seemed  a  pity  that  he, 
Mr.  Prunty,  should  have  the  real  situation  concealed 
from  him,  and  that,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  Mr.  Blunt's 
most  pronounced  outward  symptom  was  a  very 
badly  ulcerated  index  toe.  This  of  Billy's  own 
knowledge,  and  Mr.  Prunty  might  depend  upon  it. 

Mr.  Prunty  studied  on  this  for  a  long  time,  and 
then  remarked  that  he  had  known  several  people  to 
recover  from  sore  toes. 

Billy  then  pulled  a  book — a  medical  work  he  had 
borrowed — from  under  the  desk,  and  showed  Mr. 
Prunty  a  passage  in  which  it  was  laid  down  that 
people's  toes  come  off  sometimes,  in  a  most  incon- 
venient way,  in  the  last  stages  of  Bright's  disease. 
Mr.  Prunty  read  the  whole  page,  including  a  descrip- 
tion of  the  way  that  dread  disease  ruins  the  com- 
plexion, by  making  it  pasty  and  corpselike,  and  then 
laid  the  book  down  with  conviction  in  his  eyes. 

"From  this,"  said  he,  motioning  at  the  book  with 
his  glasses,  "it  would  seem  to  be  all  off." 

"If  it's  Bright's  disease,"  said  Billy,  "that  causes 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  71 

this  lesion  of  the  major  lower  digit,  the  prognosis  is, 
no  doubt,  extremely  grave.  But  while  there's  life, 
you  know — " 

"Yes,"  answered  Mr.  Prunty,  "that  is  a  comfort, 
of  course.  Does  he  know  what  ails  him?" 

"He  is  fully  aware  of  his  condition,"  said  Billy, 
"but,  unfortunately,  not  yet  resigned  to  it."  (I 
should  think  not.) 

"I  see  you  have  been  studying  this  thing  out," 
said  Mr.  Prunty,  "as  exactly  as  if  it  had  been  an 
engineering  problem;  and  I  want  to  say,  Mr.  Hel- 
merston,  that  I  like  your  style.  If  we  ever  control 
this  business  the  future  of  such  careful  and  compe- 
tent and  far-sighted  men  as  yourself — in  fact,  I 
may  say  your  future — will  be  bright  and  assured. 
Have  you  any  more  information  for  me  as  to  this 
—this  sad  affair  of  Blunt's?" 

Billy  thanked  him,  and  said  he  hadn't,  at  present, 
and  Air.  Prunty  went  away,  trying  to  look  sad. 
Billy  went  to  the  bank  in  Pa's  name  and  arranged 
for  a  lot  of  money  to  be  used  in  acquiring  the  Prunty 
stock,  if  it  should  be  needed.  The  stock  was  worth 
twice  as  much,  and  the  bank  people  knew  it,  and 
couldn't  have  believed,  of  course,  that  we  would  get 
it  for  that.  Then  the  Pruntys  made  an  engagement 


72  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

with  me  for  Pa  over  the  telephone,  for  a  certain 
hour  of  a  certain  day,  and  I  told  Billy. 

"The  time  has  come/'  said  Billy,  when  the  plot 
began  thickemng  in  this  way,  "for  Little  Willie  to 
beard  the  lion  in  his  den.  Smuggle  me  into  the  room 
an  hour  before  the  Pruntys  are  due,  darling,  and 
we'll  cast  the  die." 

I  was  all  pale  and  quivery  when  I  kissed  Billy — 
in  that  sort  of  serious  way  in  which  we  women  kiss 
people  we  like,  when  we  tell  them  to  come  back  with 
their  shields  or  on  them — and  pushed  him  into  the 
room. 

I  heard  all  they  said*  It  was  dark  in  there,  and 
Pa  thought  at  first  that  it  was  a  Prunty.  Pa  was 
sitting  in  the  Morris  chair,  with  his  foot  on  a  rest. 

"That  you,  Enos?"  said  he.  "Help  yourself  to  a 
chain  I'm  kind  of  laid  up  for  repairs." 

"It's  Helmerston,"  said  Billy.  "I  called  to  talk  to 
you  about  this  affair  with  Mr.  Prunty.  I  have  some 
information  which  may  be  of  value  to  you." 

Pa  sat  as  still  as  an  image  for  perhaps  a  minute^ 
I  could  almost  hear  his  thoughts.  He  was  anathema- 
tizing Billy  mentally  for  butting  in,  but  he  was  too 
good  a  strategist  to  throw  away  any  valuable 
knowledge. 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  73 

"Well,"  said  he  at  last,  "I'm  always  open  to  valu- 
able information.  Turn  it  loose  F* 

Then  Billy  told  him  all  you  know,  and  a  good  deal 
more,  which  I  shall  not  here  state,  because  it  is  not 
necessary  to  the  scenario,  and  I  did  not  understand 
it,  anyhow.  There  was  some  awfully  vivid  conversa- 
tion at  times,  though,  when  Pa  went  up  into  the 
air  at  what  Billy  had  done,  and  Billy  talked  him 
down. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,  you — you  young  lunatic," 
panted  Pa,  "that  you've  told  Prunty  that  he's  got  a 
living  corpse  to  deal  with,  when  I  need  all  the  pres- 
tige I've  won  with  him  to  hold  my  own?" 

But  Billy  explained  that  he'd  taken  the  liberty  of 
thinking  the  whole  thing  out;  and,  anyhow,  had 
merely  refrained  from  removing  a  mistaken  notion 
from  Prunty's  mind. 

"But,"  said  he,  "you  can  assure  him  when  he  gets 
here  that  you  are  really  in  robust  health." 

"Assure  him!"  roared  Pa.  "He'd  be  dead  sure 
I  was  trying  to  put  myself  in  a  better  light  for  the 
dicker.  I  couldn't  make  him  believe  anything  at  all. 
I  know  Prunty." 

Billy  said  that  the  psychology  of  the  situation  was 
plain.  Mr.  Prunty  was  convinced  that  Pa  was  in 


74  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

such  a  condition  that  he  never  could  go  back  to  the 
office,  and  could  no  more  take  sole  ownership  of  the 
Mid-Continent  than  a  baby  could  enter  a  shot-put- 
ting contest.  What  would  they  do  when  it  came 
to  making  propositions?  They  would  offer  some- 
thing that  they  were  sure  a  case  in  the  tertiary  stage 
couldn't  accept.  They  would  probably  offer  to  give 
or  take  a  certain  price  for  the  stock.  Believing  that 
Pa  wasn't  in  position  to  buy,  but  was  really  forced 
to  sell,  they  would  name  a  frightfully  low  price,  so 
that  when  Pa  accepted  it  perforce  they  would  be 
robbing  him  out  of  house  and  home,  almost.  This 
was  the  way  with  these  shrewd  traders  always,  and 
to  whipsaw  a  dying  man  would  be  nuts  for  a  man 
like  Prunty.  (I  am  here  falling  into  Billy's  dialect 
when  he  was  in  deadly  earnest.)  Then  the  conver- 
sation grew  mysterious  again  with  Pa  listening,  and 
once  admitting  that  "that  would  be  like  old  Enos." 

"But  he'll  back  out,"  said  Pa,  "if  he's  thief  enough 
ever  to  start  in." 

"Have  him  make  a  memorandum  in  writing,  and 
sign  it,"  answered  Billy. 

"But,"  rejoined  Pa,  in  a  disgusted  way,  as  if  to 
ask  why  he  condescended  to  argue  with  this  young 
fool,  "you  don't  know  Prunty.  Unless  he  has  the 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  75 

cash  in  hand  he'll  go  to  some  lawyer  and  find  a  way 
out." 

"I  thought  of  that,  too/'  said  Billy;  "and  so  I  took 
the  liberty  of  going  to  the  bank  and  getting  the 
cash — for  temporary  use,  you  know." 

"I  like  your  nerve!"  moaned  Pa  angrily.  "Do 
you  know,  young  man,  that  you've  built  up  a  situa- 
tion that  absolutely  forces  me  to  adopt  your  fool 
plans?  Absolutely  infernal  nonsense!  To  imagine 
it  possible  to  get  the  Prunty  stock  at  any  such  figures 
is — "  And  Pa  threw  up  wild  hands  of  desperation 
to  an  unpitying  sky. 

"Is  it  possible  to  imagine,"  said  Billy,  "such  a 
thing  as  the  Pruntys  trying  to  get  your  stock  at  that 
figure?  That's  the  thing  I'm  looking  for  and  count- 
ing on."  And  when  Pa  failed  to  reply,  but  only 
chewed  his  mustache,  Billy  went  on :  "I  thought  the 
logic  of  the  situation  would  appeal  to  you,"  said  he. 
"And  now  let  us  set  the  stage.  The  time  is  short." 

And  then  came  the  most  astounding  thing,  and  the 
thing  that  showed  Billy's  genius.  First  he  took  out 
the  electric-light  bulbs  of  the  electrolier,  and  screwed 
in  others  made  of  a  sort  of  greenish  glass — just  a 
little  green  tinge  in  it.  He  took  some  stage  appli- 
ances and  put  just  a  little  shade  of  dark  under  Pa's 


76  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

eyes,  and  at  the  corners  of  his  mouth;  and  when  the 
green  lights  were  turned  on  Pa  had  the  most  ghastly, 
ghostly,  pasty,  ghoulish  look  any  one  ever  saw.  I 
was  actually  frightened  when  I  came  in :  it  was  as 
bad  as  Doctor  Jekyll  turned  to  Mr.  Hyde.  Pa  looked 
rather  cheap  while  Billy  was  doing  this,  but  the  time 
was  getting  short,  and  he  was  afraid  the  Pruntys 
would  come  bursting  in  and  catch  them  at  it.  Billy 
placed  Pa  right  under  the  green  lights,  and  shaded 
them  so  that  the  rest  of  us  received  only  the  un- 
adulterated output  of  the  side  lamps.  Then  they 
arranged  their  cues,  and  Billy  stepped  into  the  next 
room.  As  he  went,  Pa  swore  for  the  first  time  since 
he  quit  running  the  line-gang,  when,  he  claims,  it 
was  necessary. 

"If  this  goes  wrong,  as  it  will/'  he  hissed  through 
his  livid  lips,  "I'll  kick  you  from  here  to  the  city- 
limits  if  it  blows  the  plug  in  the  power-house !" 

"Very  well,  sir,"  answered  Billy — and  the  foot- 
man announced  the  Pruntys. 

I  was  as  pale  as  a  ghost,  and  my  eyes  were  red, 
and  the  look  of  things  was  positively  sepulchral 
when  they  came  in,  Enos  tagging  at  his  father's 
heels  as  if  he  was  ashamed.  The  footman  turned 
on  the  light,  and  almost  screamed  as  he  looked  at 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  77 

poor  Pa,  with  the  pasty  green  in  his  complexion,  and 
the  cavernous  shadows  under  his  eyes.  Billy  had 
seen  to  it  that  the  Pruntys  had  had  plenty  of  litera- 
ture on  the  symptoms  of  Bright's  disease,  and  I 
could  see  them  start  and  exchange  looks  as  Pa's 
state  dawned  on  them. 

"I'm  sorry  to  see  you  in  this  condition,"  said  Mr. 
Prunty,  after  Pa  had  weakly  welcomed  them  and 
told  them  to  sit  down. 

"What  condition?"  snapped  Pa,  the  theatricality 
wearing  off.  "I'm  all  right,  if  it  wasn't  for  this 
blamed  toe!" 

"Is  it  very  bad?"  asked  Mr.  Prunty. 

"It  won't  heal,"  growled  Pa,  and  the  visitors  ex- 
changed glances  again.  "But  you  didn't  come  here 
to  discuss  sore  toes.  Let's  get  down  to  business." 

Then  Mr.  Prunty,  in  a  subdued  and  sort  of  minis- 
terial voice,  explained  to  Pa  that  he  was  getting 
along  in  years,  and  that  Pa  wasn't  long — that  is, 
that  Pa  was  getting  along  in  years,  too — and  both 
parties  would,  no  doubt,  be  better  satisfied  if  their 
interests  were  separated.  Therefore  he  had  decided 
to  withdraw  his  capital  from  the  business,  and  place 
it  in  some  other  enterprise  which  would  give  his  son 
a  life  work  along  lines  laid  out  in  his  education  and 


78  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

training.  He  didn't  want  to  sell  his  stock  to  the  Uni- 
versal Electric  Company  as  he  had  a  chance  to  do 
(Pa  started  fiercely  here,  for  he  was  afraid  of  the 
Universal  Electric)  ;  although  the  old  agreement  by 
which  neither  party  was  to  sell  out  to  a  competitor 
was  probably  no  longer  binding;  and  so  they  had 
come  as  man  to  man  to  talk  adjustment. 

"But,"  says  Pa,  "this  takes  me  by  surprise.  I 
don't  quite  see  my  way  clear  to  taking  on  such  a 
load  as  carrying  all  the  stock  would  be.  Mid-Conti- 
nent stock  is  valuable." 

They  exchanged  glances  again,  as  much  as  to  say 
that  Pa  was  evidently  anxious  to  sell  rather  than 
buy,  and  was  crying  the  stock  up  accordingly,  so  as 
to  get  as  much  money  as  he  could  for  me  before  he 
died. 

"We  may  not  be  so  grasping  as  you  think,"  said 
Mr.  Prunty;  and  then  nothing  was  said  for  quite 
a  while. 

Pa  was  looking  awfully  sick,  and  Mr.  Prunty  was 
just  exuding  love  and  kindness  and  magnanimity 
from  every  pore. 

"You  had  some  proposition  thought  out,"  inter- 
rogated Pa,  feeling  anxiously  for  his  own  pulse, 
"or  you  wouldn't  have  come.  What  is  it,  Prunty  ?" 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  79 

"Well,"  answered  Mr.  Prunty,  gazing  piercingly 
at  Pa,  as  if  to  ask  if  such  a  cadaverous  person  could 
possibly  take  on  the  sole  control  of  the  Mid-Conti- 
nent even  if  he  had  the  money — "well,  we  had 
thought  of  it  a  little,  that's  a  fact.  We  thought  we'd 
make  you  an  offer  to  buy  or  sell — " 

"Hurrah  for  Billy !"  my  heart  shouted.  For  this 
was  just  what  he  said  would  happen.  But,  instead 
of  hurrahing,  I  came  to  the  front  and  gave  Pa  a 
powder.  It  was  mostly  quinine,  and  was  dreadfully 
bitter. 

"To  buy  or  sell,"  went  on  Mr.  Prunty,  "at  a  price 
to  be  named  by  us.  If  it's  a  reasonable  figure,  take 
our  stock  and  give  us  our  money.  If  it's  too  high, 
why,  sell  us  yours.  That's  fair,  ain't  it  ?" 

Pa  lay  back  and  looked  green  and  groaned.  He 
was  doing  it  nobly. 

"What  is  fair  in  some  circumstances,"  he  moaned, 
"is  extortion  in  others;  and  I — er — yes,  I  suppose 
it  would  be  called  fair.  What's  your  give-or-take 
price,  Prunty?" 

"We  are  willing,"  said  Mr.  Prunty,  "to  give  or 
take  seventy-five  for  the  stock." 

Pa  was  so  still  that  I  had  to  rouse  him,  and  Mr. 
Prunty  repeated  his  offer. 


80  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

"I — I'm  getting  a  little  forgetful/'  said  Pa,  "and 
I'd  like  to  have  you  put  it  in  writing,  so  I  can  con- 
sider it,  and  be  sure  I  have  it  right,  you  know." 

The  Pruntys  consulted  again,  and  again  they 
came  forward.  Enos  wrote  down  the  proposition, 
and  Mr.  Prunty  signed  it.  I  didn't  understand  it 
very  well,  and  the  strain  was  so  frightful  that  I  ex- 
pected to  fly  all  to  pieces  every  instant,  but  I  didn't. 

When  Enos  handed  the  paper  to  Pa,  Pa  cleared 
his  throat  in  a  kind  of  scraping  way,  and  in  stepped 
Billy  with  a  great  box  under  his  arm. 

"Mr.  Helmerston,"  said  Pa,  as  calmly  as  General 
Grant  at — any  place  where  he  was  especially  placid 
— "I  want  you  and  my  daughter  to  be  witnesses  to 
the  making  of  the  proposition  in  this  writing,  from 
Mr.  Prunty  to  me." 

Billy  read  the  paper,  and  said  he  understood  that 
it  was  a  give-or-take  offer  of  seventy-five  for  all  the 
stock  of  the  Mid-Continent.  Mr.  Prunty  said  yes, 
looking  rather  dazed,  and  not  so  sympathetic. 

"I  accept  the  proposition,"  snapped  Pa,  his  jaw 
setting  too  awfully  firm  for  the  tertiary  stage.  "I'll 
take  your  stock  at  seventy-five.  Helmerston,  pay  'em 
the  money !" 

Billy  had  the  cash  in  ten-thousand-dollar  bundles ; 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  81 

and  I  was  so  fascinated  at  the  sight  of  so  much  treas- 
ure being  passed  over  like  packages  of  bonbons,  that 
for  a  while  I  didn't  see  how  funny  Mr.  Prunty  was 
acting.  When  I  did  look,  he  was  holding  his  nose 
in  the  air  and  gasping  like  one  of  Aunt  Maria's  lit- 
tle chickens  with  the  pip.  He  seemed  to  have  a  sort 
of  progressive  convulsions,  beginning  low  down  in 
wrigglings  of  the  legs,  and  gradually  moving  up- 
ward in  jerks  and  gurgles  and  gasps,  until  it  went 
off  into  space  in  twitchings  of  his  mouth  and  eyes 
and  nose  and  forehead.  Enos  had  the  bundles  of 
money  counted,  and  a  receipt  written,  before  he  no- 
ticed that  his  father  was  having  these  fits,  and  then 
he  seemed  scared.  I  suppose  these  people  have  a  sort 
of  affection  for  each  other,  after  all. 

"Father,"  said  he—  "Father,  what's  the  matter?" 
"Matter?"  roared  Mr.  Prunty.  "Does  the  fool 
ask  what's  the  matter?  Don't  you  see  we're  done 
brown?  Look  at  the  basketful  they  brought,  that  we 
might  just  as  well  have  had  as  not,  if  it  hadn't 
been  for —  Blast  you,  Blunt,  I'll  show  you  you  can't 
chisel  old  Enos  Prunty  out  of  his  good  money  like 
this,  I  will !  I'll  put  the  whole  kit  and  boodle  of  yeh 
in  jail !  That  stock  is  worth  a  hundred  and  fifty,  if 
it's  worth  a  cent.  Ene,  if  you'll  stand  by  like  a 


82  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

stoughton  bottle  and  see  your  old  father  hornswog- 
gled  out  of  his  eye-teeth  by  a  college  dude  and  this 
old  confidence-man,  you'll  never  see  a  cent  of  my 
money,  never !  Do  you  hear,  you  ass  ?  He's  no  more 
sick  than  I  am!  That's  false  pretenses,  ain't  it? 
He's  got  some  darned  greenery-yallery  business  on 
that  face  of  his!  Ain't  that  false?  Blunt,  if  you 
don't  give  me  the  rest  in  the  basket  there  I'll  law 
you  to  the  Supreme  Court !" 

"Hush,  father,"  said  Enos;  "Aurelia's  here." 

"When  you  get  everything  set,"  said  Pa,  with  a 
most  exasperating  smile,  "just  crack  ahead  with 
your  lawsuit.  We'll  trot  you  a  few  heats,  anyhow. 
You'd  better  take  your  pa  away,  Enos,  and  buy  him 
a  drink  of  something  cool." 

"I  want  to  compliment  you,  Mr.  Helmerston," 
said  Enos,  quite  like  a  gentleman,  "on  the  success 
of  your  little  stage-business,  and  especially  on  your 
careful  forecast  of  the  play  of  human  motives.  I 
can  see  that  a  man  with  only  ordinary  business  dis- 
honesty, like  myself,  need  not  be  surprised  at  defeat 
by  such  a  master  of  finesse  as  you." 

He  bowed  toward  me.  Billy  flushed. 

"If  you  mean,  sir — "  he  began. 

"Oh,  I  mean  nothing  offensive,"  answered  Enos. 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  83 

"I  will  be  in  the  office  in  the  morning,  and  shall  be 
ready,  as  secretary,  to  transfer  this  stock  on  the 
books,  previous  to  resigning.  Come,  father,  we've 
got  our  beating;  but  we  can  still  have  the  satisfac- 
tion of  being  good  losers.  Good-by,  Miss  Blunt;  I 
wish  you  joy!" 

Pa  came  out  of  the  green  light  as  they  disappeared, 
limping  on  his  wrapped-up  foot,  and  shouted  that  he 
had  always  said  that  Enos  was  a  brick,  and  now  he 
knew  it.  I  ran  up  to  him  and  kissed  him.  Then  I 
threw  myself  into  Billy's  arms. 

"Aurelia!"  said  Pa,  looking  as  cross  as  a  man 
could  look  in  such  circumstances,  "I  should  think 
you'd  be  ashamed  of  yourself !" 

I  dropped  into  a  chair  and  covered  up  my  face, 
while  Pa  went  on  addressing  Billy,  trying  to  be 
severe  on  him  for  letting  me  kiss  him,  and  to  beam 
on  him  at  the  same  time  for  helping  him  with  the 
Pruntys. 

"Young  man,"  said  he,  "I  owe  you  a  great  deal. 
This  tomfoolery  happened  to  work.  Please  to  con- 
sider yourself  a  part  of  the  Mid-Continent  Elec- 
tric Company  in  any  capacity  you  choose." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  Billy,  gathering  up  the  money. 
"Is  that  all,  sir?" 


84  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

"I  should  like  to  have  you  take  Enos'  place  as  sec- 
retary," added  Pa. 

'Thank  you,"  said  Billy.  "I  shall  be  pleased  and 
honored.  Is  that  all?  Do  I  still  go  to  Mexico ?" 

Pa  pondered  and  fidgeted,  and  acted  awfully  ill  at 
ease. 

"Yes,"  said  he  at  last.  "You're  the  only  compe- 
tent engineer  we've  got  who  understands  the  plans. 
You'll  have  to  go  for  a  few  months — if  you  don't 
mind — anyhow." 

"Pa,"  said  I,  "I'm  tired  of  metal  work,  and  I  need 
a  vacation  in  new  and  pleasant  surroundings,  and — 
and  associations.  Billy  is  awfully  pleasant  to  asso- 
ciate with,  and — and  be  surrounded  by;  and  I've 
never,  never  been  in  Guadalanawhat-you-may-call- 
it;  and — and — may  we  Pa?" 

"Young  woman!"  glared  Pa,  "who  have  you  the 
effrontery  to  call  'Billy'  ?" — Pa  could  never  acquire 
what  he  calls  "the  'whom'  habit." 

Billy  stepped  manfully  forward. 

"You  would  recognize  the  name  'Billy,'  "  said  he, 
"if  it  were  joined  with  the  rather  profane  surname 
with  which  it  is,  unfortunately,  connected,  'from  the 
Atlantic  to  the  Missouri.'  Mr.  Blunt,  you  can  not  be 
ignorant  of  the  sweet  dream  in  which  I  have  in- 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  85 

dulged  myself  with  reference  to  your  daughter.  I 
know  I  am  unworthy  of  her — " 

"Oh,  cut  that  short !"  said  Pa.  "Take  this  grease 
off  my  face,  and  remove  these  infernal  stage  lights ! 
There,  Dolly — there!  Mr.  Helmerston,  er — Billy — - 
will  start  for  Mexico  within  a  month.  If  you — if 
you  really  want  to  go  with  him,  why  go!" 

And  so  we're  going,  by  way  of  Yellowstone  Park. 


CHAPTER  IV 

""X/OU  see/'  said  Mr.  Driscoll,  when,  after  three 
days  of  independent  wonder-gazing  in  the 
thirty  square  miles  of  the  Lower  Geyser  Basin,  his 
seven  fares  came  together  for  departure,  "as  I  told 
yeh,  this  trip  is  just  gettin'  good." 

"I  have  seen,"  said  the  Poet,  "a  spring  from  the 
bottom  of  which  fires  leap  in  lambent  flames,  to  be 
quenched  by  the  air  when  they  reach  the  surface. 
Let  me  die,  now !" 

"I  have  seen,"  said  the  Artist,  "the  Mammoth 
Paint  Pots  from  which  we  may  dip  our  colors  in  that 
day  'when  earth's  last  picture  is  painted,  and  the 
tubes  are  twisted  and  dried/  ' 

"I  have  seen,"  said  the  Bride,  "a  lake  perched 
upon  a  marble  platform,  the  slopes  of  which  it  drapes 
with  a  lace  of  runnels — like  the  web  that  was  woven 
by  the  Lady  of  Shalott  while  she  looked  in  her 
magic  mirror." 

86 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  87 

"In  that  day  when  we  perfect  our  mythology/' 
said  the  Poet,  "we  shall  know  of  the  nymph  of  this 
lake,  who  uses  it  as  a  mirror,  and  will  die  if  she 
looks  away  from  the  image  to  gaze  on  the  real 
knight  as  he  passes/' 

"I  question  that,  really,"  said  the  Professor.  "In 
an  age  of  pure  science — " 

"Scat !'  said  the  Colonel.  "I  have  seen  a  pool  that 
goes  mad  when  any  passing  idiot  throws  gross  ma- 
terial into  its  pure  idealism — and  I  sympathize 
with  it." 

"I  have  seen,"  went  on  Professor  Boggs,  "a  nat- 
ural object — I  refer  to  the  Fountain  Geyser — which 
gives  us  a  valuable  lesson  in  steady  performance, 
with  no  eccentricities.  Every  four  hours  it  plays  for 
fifteen  minutes,  shooting  its  water  to  a  height  of 
sixty  feet.  Note  the  mathematical  correspondence — 
the  feet  correspond  to  the  minutes  in  the  hour — the 
hours  are  four — four  into  sixty  goes  fifteen  times, 
the  number  of  minutes  the  geyser  plays — I  shall 
work  this  out  in  an  essay — it  seems  very  significant." 

"I  have  seen,"  said  the  Groom,  "in  the  Great  Foun- 
tain Geyser,  a  natural  power  installation.  It  throws 
its  huge  volume  of  water  to  a  height  of  one  hundred 


88  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

feet.    It  is  on  a  pedestal  like  an  emplacement  for  a 

monument,  and  its  crater  looks  like  the  hole  in  which 

to  set  the  shaft.   That  makes  the  matter  of  utilizing 

the  power  a  cinch.  I  figure — " 

"Billy!"  said  the  Bride.  "Aren't  you  ashamed?" 
"The    Professor    and    myself,"    answered    the 

Groom,  "represent  the  spirit  of  the  age.    We  only 

are  sane." 

"You,  Billy  Helmerston,"  said  the  Bride,  "are  a 

fraud  r  , 

Nine  miles  to  the  Upper  Geyser  Basin — passing 
the  Midway  Basin  half-way — and  the  tourists  found 
their  tents  already  pitched  by  Aconite  who  had  pre- 
ceded them  with  the  impedimenta,  and  returned 
light  for  the  drive.  They  took  a  whole  day  for  the 
journey,  and  even  so  felt  as  if  they  were  commit- 
ting an  atrocity  in  negligence.  The  Jewell  Geyser, 
the  Sapphire  Pool  and  the  Mystic  Falls  seemed  small 
by  comparison  with  the  gigantic  phenomena  of  the 
Lower  Basin,  and  smaller  still  next  day  compared 
with  the  stupendous  marvels  of  the  Upper  Basin.  At 
the  Mystic  Falls,  the  Bride  insisted  on  taking  lunch- 
eon. 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  89 

"It's  like  the  really  normal  loveliness  of  earth," 
said  she.  "It  goes  better  with  humanity,  and  lunch- 
eon, and  flowers  and  fairies  and  gentle  things.  I 
want  to  eat  a  meal  in  neither  Paradise  nor  the  In- 
ferno— and  we  seem  to  be  in  one  or  the  other  most 
of  the  time/' 

At  luncheon,  Professor  Boggs  came  forward  with 
an  original  and  practical  idea  with  relation  to  the 
Yellowstone  Nights'  Entertainment,  as  they  had 
come  to  call  their  camp-fire  stories. 

"I  hold,"  said  he,  "that  one  is  entitled  to  time  for 
putting  his  thoughts  in  order  before  presuming  to 
deliver  an  address,  even  of  the  narrative  sort  I 
find  myself  apprehensive  of  being  called  upon  next, 
and  this  interferes  with  my  powers  of  observation.  I 
suggest  that  we  cast  lots  for  the  next  tale  now,  and 
thus  free  the  minds  of  all  but  the  narrator,  who  may 
retire  if  he  choose,  and  collate  his  data." 

"It's  a  good  thought,"  said  the  Groom.  "Poet, 
perform  your  office !" 

The  Poet  passed  the  hat  to  the  Bride,  who  closed 
her  eyes  and  felt  about  discriminatingly,  saying  she 
was  trying  to  find  Billy  in  the  hat.  The  Poet  read 
the  ballot  and  handed  it  to  the  Artist. 


90  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

"Groom !"  read  the  Artist,  handing  the  slip  of  pa- 
per to  Billy.  "You're  nominated." 
"Stung!"  ejaculated  Billy. 

THE  HEART  OF  GOLIATH 

THE    STORY   TOLD   BY   THE   GROOM 

"I  often  think,"  said  the  Groom,  in  beginning  his 
tale  that  night,  "when  this  adventure  recurs  to  me, 
what  a  different  world  it  would  be  if  we  could  see 
into  one  another's  minds,  and  telepathically  search 
one  another's  hearts.  I  don't  know  whether  it  would 
be  better  or  not ;  but  that  it  would  be  different,  this 
story  proves.  It  is  a  tale  that  came  to  me  when  I 
was  traveling  about  in  the  Missouri  Valley,  earning 
the  money  for  my  Tech  course,  and  long  before  my 
time  with  the  Mid-Continent  Electric  Company.  It 
shows  how  a  soul  that  is  pitchy  darkness  to  its  near- 
est and  dearest,  may  be  illumined  by  the  electric 
light  of  self -revelation  to  the  eye  of  the  chance-met 
stranger." 

I  first  saw  him  on  the  platform  just  before  my 
train  pulled  out  from  Sioux  City  to  Aberdeen.  He 
was  a  perfect  mountain — an  Alp,  a  Himalaya — of 
man.  He  must  have  been  well  toward  seven  feet  tall ; 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  91 

and  so  vast  were  his  proportions  that  as  he  stooped 
to  the  window  to  buy  his  ticket  he  reminded  me  of  a 
mastiff  peering  into  a  mouse's  hole.  From  a  distance 
— one  could  scarcely  take  in  the  details  at  close 
range — I  studied  him  as  a  remarkable  specimen  of 
the  brawny  western  farmer,  whose  score  in  any  ex- 
hibition would  be  lowered  by  one  fact  only :  lofty  as 
his  height  was,  he  was  getting  too  heavy  for  it. 

I  had  to  go  into  the  smoking-car  to  find  a  vacant 
seat,  and  there  I  could  see  but  one.  I  had  but  just 
slipped  into  it  when  in  came  the  Gargantuan  farmer 
and  sat  down  all  over  me,  in  a  seemingly  ruthless 
exercise  of  his  undoubted  right  to  half  the  seat,  and 
his  unquestionable  ability  to  appropriate  as  much 
more  as  his  dimensions  required.  Falstaff  with  his 
page  reminded  himself  of  a  sow  that  had  over- 
whelmed all  her  litter  save  one :  I  felt  like  the  last 
of  the  litter  in  process  of  smothering.  And  he  was 
as  ignorant  of  my  existence,  apparently,  as  could 
possibly  be  required  by  the  comparison. 

He  wore  with  bucolic  negligence  clothes  of  ex- 
cellent quality.  His  hat  was  broad  as  a  prairie.  I 
have  no  idea  where  such  hats  are  bought.  I  am  sure 
I  never  saw  one  of  such  amplitude  of  brim  on  sale 
anywhere.  It  was  of  the  finest  felt,  and  had  a  band 
of  heavy  leather  pressed  into  a  design  in  bas-relief. 


92  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

A  few  dried  alfalfa  leaves  had  lodged  in  the  angle 
between  the  crown  and  the  brim,  and  clung  there, 
even  when  he  took  the  hat  off  to  wipe  his  brow,  thus 
giving  me  a  view  of  the  plateau  of  felt,  which  I 
should  never  have  obtained  otherwise. 

His  face  was  enormous  but  not  puffy;  and  the 
red  veinlets  on  the  cheek  and  nose  had  acquired  their 
varicosity  by  weathering  rather  than  by  indulgence. 
His  hair  was  clipped  short,  as  though  he  had  had  a 
complete  job  done  as  a  measure  of  economizing  time. 
He  had  a  high  beak  of  a  nose,  with  rugged  promon- 
tories of  bone  at  the  bridge,  like  the  shoulders  of  a 
hill ;  and  his  mouth  was  a  huge  but  well-shaped  fea- 
ture, hard  and  inflexible  like  the  mouth  of  a  cave. 

His  shirt  was  of  blue  flannel,  clean  and  fine,  and 
its  soft  roll  collar  fell  away  from  his  great  muscular 
neck  unconfined  and  undecorated  by  any  sort  of 
cravat.  His  tun  of  a  torso  bulged  roundly  out  in 
front  of  me  like  the  sponson  of  a  battleship. 
Stretched  across  the  immense  waistcoat  was  a  round, 
spirally-fluted  horsehair  watchguard  as  big  as  a  rope, 
with  massive  golden  fastenings ;  and  suspended  from 
it  was  a  golden  steer  made  by  some  artificer  who 
had  followed  Cellini  afar  off,  if  at  all,  and  which 
gave  the  area  (one  must  use  geographical  terms  in 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  93 

describing  the  man),  an  auriferous  and  opulent  ap- 
pearance. 

His  trousers  were  spotted  with  the  stains  of 
stables ;  and  his  huge  boots,  like  barges,  had  similar 
discolorations  overlaying  a  brilliant  shine.  He  car- 
ried one  of  those  heavy  white  sticks  with  which  the 
drovers  and  dealers  at  the  Sioux  City  stockyards 
poke  the  live  stock  and  take  the  liberties  accorded  to 
prospective  purchasers  with  pigs  and  bullocks.  On 
the  crook  of  this  he  rested  his  great  hands,  one  piled 
upon  the  other,  and  stared,  as  if  fascinated  by  them, 
at  four  soldiers  returning  from  service  in  the  Philip- 
pines, who  had  two  seats  turned  together,  and  were 
making  a  gleeful  function  of  their  midday  meal, 
startling  the  South  Dakota  atmosphere  with  the  loud 
use  of  strange-sounding  expressions  in  Tagalog  and 
Spanish,  and,  with  military  brutality,  laughing  at  the 
dying  struggles  of  a  fellow-man  being  slowly  pressed 
to  death  under  that  human  landslide.  I  resented  their 
making  light  of  such  a  subject. 

My  oppressor  stared  at  them  with  a  grim  and  un- 
wavering gaze  that  finally  seemed  to  put  them  out 
and  set  them  ill  at  ease;  for  they  became  so  quiet 
that  we  could  hear  noises  other  than  theirs.  Once  in 
a  while,  however,  they  winked  at  me  to  show  their 


94  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

appreciation  of  my  agonies,  and  made  remarks  about 
the  water-cure  and  the  like,  meant  for  my  ears.  My 
incubus  seemed  not  to  hear  a  word  of  this  badinage. 
I  wondered  if  he  were  not  deaf,  or  a  little  wrong  in 
his  intellect.  The  train  stopped  at  a  little  station  just 
as  I  had  become  quite  desperate,  and  two  men  sit- 
ting in  front  of  us  got  off.  With  the  superhuman 
strength  of  the  last  gasp  I  surged  under  my  tor- 
mentor— and  he  noticed  me.  I  verily  believe  that 
until  that  instant  he  had  not  known  of  my  presence ; 
he  gave  such  a  deliberate  sort  of  start. 

"Excuse  me !"  said  he.  "Forgot  they  was  any  one 
here — let  me  fix  you !" 

He  had  already  almost  done  so ;  but  he  meant  well. 
He  rose  to  take  the  vacated  seat ;  but  with  a  glance 
at  the  soldiers  he  threw  the  back  over,  turned  his 
back  to  them  and  his  face  to  me,  and  sat  down.  His 
ponderous  feet  like  valises  rested  on  each  side  of 
mine,  his  body  filled  the  seat  from  arm  to  arm.  For 
a  while,  even  after  discovering  me,  he  stared  past 
me  as  if  I  had  been  quite  invisible.  I  saw  a  beady 
perspiration  on  his  brow  as  if  he  were  under  some 
great  stress  of  feeling.  It  was  getting  uncanny.  I 
understood  now  how  the  soldiers,  now  breaking 
forth  into  riot  again,  had  been  suppressed  by  that 


YELLOWSTONE   NIGHTS  95 

stony  regard.  When  he  spoke,  however,  it  was  in 
commonplaces. 

"They're  lots  of  'em  comin'  back,"  said  he. 

A  slow  thrust  of  the  bulky  thumb  over  his  shoul- 
der indicated  that  he  meant  soldiers.  I  nodded  as- 
sent. A  great  many  were  returning  just  then. 

"Jack's  come  back/'  said  he;  "quite  a  while/' 

His  voice  was  in  harmony  with  his  physique — 
deep,  heavy,  rough.  Raised  in  rage  it  might  have 
matched  the  intonations  of  Stentor,  and  terrified  a 
thousand  foes ;  for  it  was  a  phenomenal  voice.  The 
rumble  of  the  train  was  a  piping  treble  compared 
with  it. 

"You  don't  know  Jack,  do  yeh?"  he  asked. 

"I  think  not/'  said  I. 

"Course  not/'  he  replied.  "Fool  question!  An* 
yit,  he  used  to  know  most  of  you  fellers," 

I  wondered  just  what  he  might  mean  by  "you  fel- 
lows," but  he  was  silent  again. 

"You  don't  live  near  here,"  he  stated  at  last 

"No,"  said  I.  "I  am  just  passing  through." 

"If  you  lived  in  these  parts,"  said  he,  "you'd 
know  him." 

"I  dare  say,"  I  replied.  "Who  is  Jack?" 

I  was  a  little  piqued  at  his  rudeness;  for  he  re- 


96  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

turned  no  reply.  Then  I  saw  that  he  was  gazing  into 
vacancy  again  so  absently  that  I  should  have  pro- 
nounced his  case  one  of  mental  trouble  if  his  ap- 
pearance had  not  been  so  purely  physical.  He  took 
from  a  cigar-case  a  big,  dark,  massive  cigar,  club- 
house shape  like  himself,  gave  it  to  me  and  lighted 
the  twin  of  it.  I  thought  myself  entitled  to  repara- 
tion for  his  maltreatment  of  me,  and,  seeing  that  it 
was  a  good  cigar,  I  took  it.  As  for  any  further  con- 
verse, I  had  given  that  up,  when  there  rumbled  forth 
from  him  a  soliloquy  rather  than  a  story.  He  ap- 
peared to  have  very  little  perception  of  me  as  an 
auditor.  I  think  now  that  he  must  have  been  in 
great  need  of  some  one  to  whom  he  might  talk,  and 
that  his  relations  to  those  about  him  forbade  any 
outpouring  of  expression.  He  seemed  all  the  time 
in  the  attitude  of  repelling  attack.  He  did  not  move, 
save  as  he  applied  the  cigar  to  his  lips  or  took  it 
away;  and  his  great  voice  rolled  forth  in  subdued 
thunder. 

"I've  got  four  sections  of  ground/'  said  he,  "right 
by  the  track.  .  .  .  Show  you  the  place  when  we 
go  through.  Of  course  I've  got  a  lot  of  other  truck 
scattered  around.  .  .  .  Land  at  the  right  figger 
youVe  got  to  buy — got  to.  ...  But  when  I 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  97 

hadn't  but  the  four  sections — one  section  overruns 
so  they's  a  little  over  twenty-six  hundred  acres — I 
thought  'twas  about  the  checker  f  'r  a  man  with  three 
boys.  .  .  .  One  f 'r  each  o'  them,  you  understand, 
an'  the  home  place  f'r  mother  if  anything  hap- 
pened. .  .  .  Mother  done  jest  as  much  to  help  git 
the  start  as  I  did,  .  .  .  Plumb  as  much — if  not 
more. 

"Tom  an'  Wallace  is  good  boys — none  better.  I'd 
about  as  quick  trust  either  of  'em  to  run  the  place  as 
to  trust  myself." 

There  was  a  candid  self-esteem  in  the  word 
"about"  and  his  emphasis  on  it. 

"I  sent  Wallace,"  he  resumed,  "into  a  yard  of 
feeders  in  Montana  to  pick  out  a  trainload  o'  tops 
with  a  brush  and  paint-pot,  an'  I  couldn't  'a'  got  a 
hundred  dollars  better  deal  if  I'd  spotted  'em  my- 
self. .  .  .  That's  goin'  some  f'r  a  kid  not 
twenty-five.  Wallace  knows  critters  ...  f'r  a 
boy  .  .  .  mighty  well.  .  .  .  An'  Tom's  got  a 
way  of  handlin'  land  to  get  the  last  ten  bushel  of 
corn  to  the  acre  that  beats  me  with  all  my  experience. 
.  .  .  These  colleges  where  they  study  them  things 
do  some  good,  I  s'pose;  but  it's  gumption,  an'  not 
schoolin',  that  makes  boys  like  Tom  an'  Wallace. 


98  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

.  .  .  They're  all  right  .  .  .  They'd  'a'  made 
good  anyhow." 

I  could  feel  an  invidious  comparison  between 
Tom  and  Wallace,  of  whom  he  spoke  with  such 
laudatory  emphasis,  and  some  one  else  whom  I  sus- 
pected to  be  the  Jack  who  had  come  back  from  the 
Philippines ;  and  his  next  utterance  proved  this  in- 
stinctive estimate  of  the  situation  to  be  correct.  He 
went  on,  slower  than  before,  with  long  pauses  in 
which  he  seemed  lost  in  thought,  and  in  some  of 
which  I  gave  up,  without  much  regret,  I  confess,  the 
idea  of  ever  hearing  more  of  Jack  or  his  brothers. 

"Jack  was  always  mother's  boy,"  said  he. 
"Mother's  boy  .  .  .  you  know  how  it  is.  ... 
Make  beds,  an'  dust,  an'  play  the  pianah,  an'  look 
after  the  flowers!  .  .  .  Wasn't  bigger'n  nothin', 
either.  .  .  .  Girl,  I  always  thought,  by  good 
rights.  I  remember  .  .  .  mother  wanted  him  to 
be  a  girl.  .  .  .  She  was  on  the  square  with  the 
children  .  .  .  but  if  any  boy  got  a  shade  the  best 
of  it  anywhere  along  the  line,  it  was  Jack.  .  .  . 
I  don't  guess  Tom  an'  Wallace  ever  noticed;  but 
maybe  Jack  got  a  leetle  the  soft  side  o'  things  from 
mother.  .  .  .  Still,  she's  al'ays  been  dumbed 
square.  .  .  . 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  99 

"I  seen  as  soon  as  he  got  old  enough  to  take  holt, 
an'  didn't,  that  he  wasn't  wuth  a  cuss.  .  .  . 
Never  told  mother,  an'  never  let  on  to  the  boys ;  but 
I  could  see  he  was  no  good,  Jack  wasn't.  .  .  . 
Some  never  owns  up  when  it's  their  own  folks 
.  .  .  but  what's  the  use  lyin'?  .  .  .  Hed  to 
hev  a  swaller-tail  coat,  an'  joined  a  'country  club' 
down  to  town — an'  him  a-livin'  in  the  middle  of  a 
strip  o'  country  a  mile  wide  an'  four  long,  wuth  a 
hundred  dollars  an  acre  ...  all  ourn  .  .  . 
goin'  out  in  short  pants  to  knock  them  little  balls 
around  that  cost  six  bits  apiece.  I  didn't  let  myself 
care  much  about  it;  but  'country  club!' — Hell!" 

He  had  visualized  for  me  the  young  fellow  un- 
fitted to  his  surroundings,  designed  on  a  scale1 
smaller  than  the  sons  of  Anak  about  him,  deft  in 
little  things,  finical  in  dress,  fond  of  the  leisure  and 
culture  of  the  club,  oppressed  with  the  roughnesses 
and  vastnesses  about  his  father's  farms,  too  tender 
for  the  wild  winds  and  burning  suns,  with  nerves  at- 
tuned to  music  and  art  rather  than  to  the  crushing  of 
obstacles  and  the  defeat  of  tasks:  and  all  the  while 
the  image  of  "mother"  brooded  over  him.  All  this 
was  vividly  in  the  picture — very  vividly,  considering 
the  unskilful  brush  with  which  it  had  been  limned — > 


ioo  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

but  just  as  it  began  to  appeal  to  me,  Anak  fell 
quiescent. 

"I  never  thought  he  was  anything  wuss  than 
wuthless,"  he  went  on,  at  last,  "till  he  come  to  me  to 
git  some  money  he'd  lost  at  this  here  club.  .  .  . 
Thirty-seven  dollars  an*  fifty  cents.  .  .  .  Gam- 
blin'.  ...  I  told  him  not  by  a  damned  sight ;  an' 
he  cried — cried  like  a  baby.  ...  I'd  'a'  seen  him 
jugged  'fore  I'd  'a'  give  him  thirty-seven  fifty  of 
my  good  money  lost  that  way.  .  .  .  Not  me. 

.  .  .  Wallace  give  him  the  money  f'r  his  shot- 
gun. .  .  .  An'  mother — she  al'ays  knowed  when 
Jack  had  one  o'  his  girl-cryin'  fits — she  used  to  go 
up  after  Jack  come  in  them  nights,  an'  when  he  got 
asleep  so  he  wouldn't  know  it  she'd  go  in  and  kiss 
him.  .  .  .  Watched  and  ketched  her  at  it,  but 
never  let  on.  .  .  .  She  run  down  bad — gittin'  up 
before  daylight  an'  broke  of  her  rest  like  that.  .  .  . 
I  started  in  oncet  to  tell  her  he  was  no  good,  but  I 
jest  couldn't.  .  .  .  Turned  it  off  on  a  hoss  by 
the  name  o'  Jack  we  had,  an'  sold  him  to  make  good 
f'r  twenty-five  dollars  less'n  he  was  wuth,  ruther'n 
tell  her  what  I  started  to.  ...  She  loved 
that  wuthless  boy,  neighbor — there  ain't  no  use 
denyin'  it,  she  did  love  him." 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  101 

He  paused  a  long  while,  either  to  ponder  on  the 
strange  infatuation  of  "mother"  for  "Jack"  or  to 
allow  me  to  digest  his  statement.  A  dog — one  of  the 
shaggy  brown  enthusiasts  that  chase  trains — ran 
along  by  the  cars  until  distanced,  and  then  went  back 
wagging  his  tail  as  if  he  had  expelled  from  the 
neighborhood  some  noxious  trespasser — as  he  may 
have  conceived  himself  to  have  done.  Goliath 
watched  him  with  great  apparent  interest. 

"Collie,"  said  he,  at  last.  "Know  anything  about 
collies?  Funny  dogs!  Lick  one  of  'em  oncet  an' 
he's  never  no  good  any  more.  .  .  .  All  kind  o' 
shruvle  up  by  lickin',  they're  that  tender-hearted. 
.  .  .  Five  year  ago  this  fall  Tom  spiled  a  fifty- 
dollar  pedigreed  collie  by  jest  slappin'  his  ears  an' 
jawin'  him.  .  .  .  Some  critters  is  like  that  .  .  . 
Jack  .  .  .  was!" 

He  faltered  here,  and  then  flamed  out  into  pug- 
nacity, squaring  his  huge  jaw  as  if  I  had  accused 
him — as  I  did  in  my  heart,  I  suspect. 

"But  the  dog,"  he  rumbled,  "was  wuth  somethin' 
• — Jack  never  was.  .  .  .  Cryin'  around  f 'r  thirty- 
seven  fifty!  .  .  .  Talkin'  o'  debts  o'  honor! 
.  .  .  That  showed  me  plain  enough  he  wasn't 
wuth  botherin'  with.  .  Got  his  mother  to  come 


102  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

an'  ask  f'r  an  allowance  o'  money — so  much  a 
month.  .  .  .  Ever  hear  of  such  a  thing?  An' 
him  not  turnin'  his  hand  to  a  lick  of  work  except 
around  the  house  helpin'  mother.  .  .  .  Tom  an' 
Wallace  hed  quite  a  little  start  in  live  stock  by  this 
time,  an'  money  in  bank.  .  .  .  Jack  hed  the  same 
lay,  but  he  fooled  his  away — fooled  it  away.  .  .  . 
Broke  flat  all  the  time,  an'  wantin'  an  allowance. 

.  .  .  Mother  said  the  young  sprouts  at  the  club 
had  allowances  .  .  .  an'  he  read  in  books  that 
laid  around  the  house  about  fellers  in  England  an' 
them  places  havin'  allowances  an'  debts  of  honor. 
.  .  .  Mother  seemed  to  think  one  while  that  we 
was  well  enough  off  so  we  could  let  Jack  live  like  the 
fellers  in  the  books.  .  .  .  He  lived  more  in  them 
books  than  he  did  in  South  Dakoty,  an'  talked  book 
lingo  all  the  time.  .  .  .  Mother  soon  seen  she  was 
wrong. 

"She  was  some  hurt  b'cause  I  talked  to  the 
neighbors  about  Jack  bein'  plumb  no  good.  ...  I 
don't  know  who  told  her.  ...  I  didn't  want  the 
neighbors  to  think  I  was  fooled  by  him.  ...  I 
never  said  nothing  to  mother,  though.  .  .  .  She 
couldn't  f 'rgit  thet  he  was  her  boy,  an'  she  kep'  on 
lovin'  him.  .  .  .  Nobody  orto  blame  her  much  f 'r 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  103 

that,  no  matter  what  he  done.  .  .  .  You  know 
how  it  is  with  women. 

"One  time  purty  soon  after  the  thirty-seven  fifty 
deal  a  bad  check  f'r  two  hundred  come  into  my 
bundle  o'  canceled  vouchers  at  the  bank,  an'  I 
knowed  in  a  minute  who'd  done  it  ...  Jack 
had  been  walkin'  the  floor  nights  f'r  quite  a  spell, 
an'  his  eyes  looked  like  a  heifer's  that's  lost  her  calf. 
.  .  .  He  hed  a  sweetheart  in  town.  .  .  '.  Gal 
from  the  East  .  .  .  big  an'  dark  an'  strong 
enough  to  take  Jack  up  an*  spank  him.  ...  It 
was  her  brother  Jack  had  lost  the  money  to.  Jack 
jest  wrote  my  name  on  a  check — never  tried  to 
imitate  my  fist  much — an'  the  bank  paid  it.  ... 
When  I  come  home  a-lookin'  the  way  a  man  does 
that's  been  done  that  way  by  a  boy  o'  his'n,  mother 
told  me  Jack  was  gone,  an'  handed  me  a  letter  he 
left  f'r  me.  ...  I  never  read  it.  ...  Went 
out  to  the  barn  so  mother  wouldn't  see  me,  an'  tore 
it  up.  ...  I'd  'a'  been  damned  before  I'd  'a' 
read  it!" 

He  gloomed  out  over  my  head  in  an  expressionless 
way  that  aroused  all  the  curiosity  I  am  capable  of 
feeling  as  to  the  actual  workings  of  another's  mind. 
He  seemed  to  be  under  the  impression  that  he  had 


104  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

said  a  great  many  things  in  the  pause  that  ensued ; 
or  he  regarded  my  understanding  as  of  small  im- 
portance; for  he  recommenced  at  a  point  far  ad- 
vanced in  his  narrative. 

" — 'N'  finely,"  said  he  very  calmly,  "we  thought 
she  was  goin'  to  die.  I  asked  the  doctor  what  we 
could  do,  an'  he  told  me  what.  .  .  .  Knowed  all 
the  boys  since  he  helped  'em  into  the  world,  you 
know — a  friend  more'n  a  doctor — an'  he  allowed  it 
was  Jack  she  was  pinin'  f'r.  So  I  goes  to  her, 
a-layin'  in  bed  as  white  as  a  sheet,  an'  I  says, 
'Mother,  if  they's  anything  you  want,  you  can  hev  it, 
if  it's  on  earth,  no  matter  how  no-account  I  think  it 
is!'  ...  A  feller  makes  a  dumb  fool  of  himself 
such  times,  neighbor;  but  mother  was  good  goods 
when  we  was  poor  an'  young — any  one  of  the 
neighbors  can  swear  to  that.  .  .  .  She  looks  up  at 
me  .  .  .  an'  whispers  low  .  .  .  'Go  an'  find 
him !'  .  .  .  An'  I  went. 

"I  knowed  purty  nigh  where  to  look.  I  went  to 
Chicago.  He'd  dropped  clean  down  to  the  bottom, 
neighbor.  .  .  .  Playin'  a  pianah  ...  f'r  his 
board  an'  lodgin'  an'  beer  ...  in  ...  in  a 
beer  hall." 

I  was  quite  sure,  he  paused  so  long,  that  he  had 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  105 

told  all  he  had  to  narrate  of  this  history  of  the  boy 
who  could  not  stand  punishment,  and  was  so  much 
like  a  collie ;  and  I  knew  from  the  manner  in  which 
he  had  lapsed  into  silence,  more  than  from  what  he 
had  said,  what  a  dark  passage  it  was. 

"Well,"  he  resumed  finally,  "I  hed  my  hands 
spread  to  strangle  him  right  there.  ...  I  could 
'a'  done  it  all  right — he  was  that  peaked  an'  little. 
...  He  wouldn't  'a'  weighed  more'n  a  hundred 
an'  fifty — an'  my  son!  ...  I  could  'a'  squushed 
the  life  out  of  him  with  my  hands — an'  it  was  all 
right  if  I  hed.  .  .  .  You  bet  it  was!  .  .  .  Not 
that  I  cared  f'r  the  two  hundred  dollars.  I  could 
spare  that  all  right.  I'll  lose  that  much  on  a  fair 
proposition  any  time.  .  .  .  But  to  take  that  thing 
back  to  mother  .  .  .  from  where  I  picked  it  up 
from ! 

"I  reckon  I  was  ruther  more  gentle  with  Jack 
goin'  home  than  I  ever  was  before.  ...  I  hed  to 
be.  They  was  no  way  out  of  it  except  to  be  easy 
with  him — 'r  lam  the  life  out  of  him  an'  take  him 
home  on  a  cot  .  .  .  an'  mother  needed  him  in 
runnin'  order.  So  I  got  him  clothes,  an'  had  him 
bathed,  an'  he  got  shaved  as  he  used  to  be — he  had 
growed  a  beard — an'  I  rode  in  one  car  and  him  in 


106  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

another.  .  .  .  When  mother  seed  him,  her  an' 
him  cried  together  f  'r  I  suppose  it  might  have  been 
two  hours  'r  two  and  a  quarter,  off  an'  on,  an'  whis- 
pered together,  an'  then  she  went  to  sleep  holdin'  his 
hand,  an'  begun  to  pick  up,  an'  Jack  went  back  to  his 
own  ways,  an'  the  rest  of  us  to  ourn,  an'  it  was  wuss 
than  ever.  .  .  .  An'  when  he  sold  a  team  o'  mine 
and  skipped  ag'in,  I  was  glad,  I  tell  you,  to  be  shet 
of  him.  .  .  .  An'  they  could  do  the  mile  to  the 
pole  in  twenty,  slick  as  mice. 

"Next  time  mother  and  Wallace  went  an'  got  him. 
.  .  .  Mother  found  out  some  way  that  he  was 
dyin'  in  a  horsepittle  in  Minneapolis.  .  .  .  He 
claimed  he'd  been  workin  f 'r  a  real  estate  firm ;  but 
I  had  the  thing  looked  up  ...  an'  I  couldn't  find 
where  any  of  our  name  had  done  nothing.  .  .  . 
An'  it  seemed  as  ef  we'd  never  git  shet  of  him. 
.  .  .  That  sounds  hard;  but  he  was  a  kind  of  a 
disease  by  this  time — a  chronic,  awful  painful, 
worryin'  disease,  like  consumption.  .  .  .  An'  we 
couldn't  git  cured  of  him,  an'  we  couldn't  die.  .  .  . 
It  was  kind  o'  tough.  He  moped  around,  an'  mother 
had  some  kind  o'  promise  out  of  him  that  he 
wouldn't  leave  her  no  more,  an'  he  was  pleadin'  with 
her  to  let  him  go,  an'  Tom  an'  Wallace  an'  me  never 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  107 

sayin'  a  word  to  him,  when  this  here  Philippine  War 
broke  out  .  .  .  you  know  what  it's  about — I 
never  did  ...  an'  Jack  wanted  to  enlist. 
"  'I  can't  let  him  go !'  says  mother. 
"  'Let  him  go/  says  I.  'If  he'll  go,  let  him !' 
"Mother  looks  at  me  whiter'n  I  ever  expect  to 
see  her  again  but  once,  maybe ;  an'  the  next  morning 
she  an'  Jack  goes  to  the  county  seat  an'  he  enlists. 
I  went  down  when  the  rig'ment  was  all  got  together. 
Mother  an'  me  has  always  had  a  place  where  we  kep' 
all  the  money  they  was  in  the  house,  as  much  hern 
as  mine,  an'  she  took  five  twenty-dollar  gold  pieces 
out  of  the  pile,  an'  sewed  'em  in  a  chamois-skin  bag 
all  wet  with  her  cryin'  .  .  .  an'  never  sayin'  a 
word  ...  an'  she  hangs  it  round  his  neck,  an' 
hung  to  him  an'  kissed  him  till  it  sorter  bothered  the 
boss  of  the  rig'ment — some  kind  of  colonel — be- 
cause he  wanted  the  men  to  march,  you  know,  an' 
didn't  seem  to  like  to  make  mother  fall  back.  .  .  . 
She  seemed  to  see  how  it  was,  finely,  an'  fell  back, 
an'  this  colonel  made  the  motion  to  her  with  his 
sword  they  do  to  their  superiors,  an'  they  marched. 
„  .  .  Jack  stood  straighter  than  any  one  in  the 
line,  an'  he  had  a  new  sort  of  look  to  him.  He  ever- 
idged  up  purty  good,  too,  in  hithe  ...  I  don't 


io8  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

see  much  to  this  soldier  business.  .  .  .  Maybe 
that's  why  he  looked  the  part  so  well.  ...  I  give 
the  captain  a  hundred  f  r  him.  .  .  .  Jack  sent  it 
back  from  a  place  called  Sanfrisco,  without  a  word. 
'So  much  saved!'  says  I.  He  was  wuthless  as  ever." 
The  immense  voice  labored,  broke,  stopped — the 
man  seemed  weary  and  overcome.  To  afford  him 
an  escape  from  the  story  that  seemed  to  have  mas- 
tered him,  like  the  Ancient  Mariner's,  I  called  his 
attention  to  what  the  four  soldiers  were  doing. 
They  had  dressed  as  if  for  inspection,  and  were 
evidently  going  out  upon  the  platform.  The  notice- 
able thing  in  their  appearance  was  the  change  in 
their  expressions  from  the  hilarity  and  riotousness 
of  a  few  moments  ago,  to  a  certain  solemnity.  One 
of  them  carried  a  little  box  carefully  wrapped  up, 
as  a  devotee  might  carry  an  offering  to  a  shrine. 
The  huge  farmer  glanced  casually  at  them  as  if  with 
full  knowledge  of  what  they  were  doing,  and,  ignor- 
ing my  interruption,  seemed  to  resume  his  mono- 
logue— as  might  the  habitue  of  a  temple  pass  by  the 
question  of  a  stranger  concerning  a  matter  related 
to  the  mysteries — something  not  to  be  discussed, 
difficult  to  be  explained,  or  not  worth  mention.  He 
pointed  out  of  the  window. 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  109 

"Our  land/'  said  he;  "both  sides  .  .  .  tiptop 
good  ground.  .  .  .  Didn't  look  much  like  this 
when  mother  an'  me  homesteaded  the  first  quarter- 
section.  .  .  .  See  that  bunch  of  box-elders?  Me 
an'  her  camped  there  as  we  druv  in.  ...  Never 
cut  'em  down.  .  .  .  Spoil  an  acre  of  good  corn 
land,  too;  to  say  nothin'  o'  the  time  wasted  culti- 
vatin'  'round  'em.  .  .  .  Well,  a  man's  a  fool  about 
some  things!" 

It  was  a  picture  of  fulsome  plenty  and  riotous 
fertility.  Straight  as  the  stretched  cord  by  which 
they  had  been  dropped  ran  the  soldierly  rows  of 
corn,  a  mile  along,  their  dark  blades  outstretched 
in  the  unwavering  prairie  wind,  as  if  pointing  us  on 
to  something  noteworthy  or  mysterious  beyond. 
Back  and  forth  along  the  rows  plodded  the  heavy 
teams  of  the  cultivators,  stirring  the  brown  earth 
to  a  deeper  brownness.  High  fences  of  woven  wire 
divided  the  spacious  fields.  On  a  hundred-acre 
meadow,  as  square  and  level  as  a  billiard  table,  were 
piled  the  dark  cocks  of  a  second  crop  of  alfalfa. 
One,  two,  three  farmsteads  we  passed,  each  with  its 
white  house  hidden  in  trees,  its  big  red  barns,  its 
low  hog-houses,  its  feed  yards,  with  their  racks  pol- 
ished by  the  soft  necks  of  feasting  steers.  And 


no  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

everywhere  was  the  corn — the  golden  corn  of  last 
year  in  huge  cribs  like  barracks;  the  emerald  hosts 
of  the  new  crop  in  its  ranks  like  green-suited  lines- 
of-battle  arrested  in  full  career  and  held  as  by  some 
spell,  leaning  onward  in  act  of  marching,  every 
quivering  sword  pointing  mysteriously  forward. 
My  heart  of  a  farmer  swelled  within  me  at  the  scene, 
which  had  something  in  it  akin  to  its  owner,  it  was 
so  huge,  so  opulent,  so  illimitable.  Somehow,  it 
seemed  to  interpret  him  to  me. 

"Purty  good  little  places/'  said  he;  "but  the  home 
place  skins  'em  all.  We'll  be  to  it  in  a  minute. 
Train  slows  up  f 'r  a  piece  o'  new  track  work.  We'll 
git  a  good  view  of  it." 

Heaving  himself  up,  he  went  before  me  down  the 
aisle  of  the  slowing  train.  There  stood  the  soldiers 
on  the  steps  and  the  platform.  We  took  our  places 
back  of  them.  I  was  absorbed  in  the  study  of  the 
splendid  farm,  redeemed  from  the  lost  wilderness 
by  this  man  who  had  all  at  once  become  worth  while 
to  me.  Back  at  the  rear  of  the  near-by  fields  was  a 
row  of  lofty  cottonwoods,  waving  their  high  crests 
in  the  steady  wind.  All  about  the  central  grove  were 
pastures,  meadows,  gardens  and  orchards.  A  dense 
coppice  of  red  cedars  enclosed  on  three  sides  a  big 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  in 

feed-yard,  in  which,  stuffing  themselves  on  corn  and 
alfalfa,  or  lying  in  the  dusty  straw,  were  grouped  a 
hundred  bovine  aristocrats  in  stately  unconcern  of 
the  rotund  Poland-Chinas  about  them.  In  the  pas- 
tures were  colts  as  huge  as  dray-horses,  shaking  the 
earth  in  their  clumsy  play.  There  were  barns  and 
barns  and  barns — capacious  red  structures,  with 
hay-forks  rigged  under  their  projecting  gables ;  and, 
in  the  midst  of  all  this  foison,  stood  the  house — 
square,  roomy,  of  red  brick,  with  a  broad  porch  on 
two  sides  covered  with  climbing  roses  and  vines. 

On  this  veranda  was  a  thing  that  looked  like  a 
Morris  chair  holding  a  figure  clad  in  khaki.  A 
stooped,  slender,  white-haired  woman  hovered  about 
the  chair;  and  down  by  the  track,  as  if  to  view  the 
passing  train,  stood  a  young  woman  who  was  tall  and 
swarthy  and  of  ample  proportions.  Her  dress  was 
artistically  adapted  to  country  wear;  she  looked 
well-groomed  and  finished.  She  was  smiling  as  the 
train  drew  slowly  past,  but  I  was  sure  that  her  eyes 
were  full  of  tears.  I  wondered  why  she  looked  with 
such  intentness  at  the  platform — until  I  saw  what 
the  soldiers  were  doing.  They  stood  at  attention, 
their  hands  to  their  service-hats,  stiff,  erect,  military. 
The  girl  returned  the  salute,  and  pointed  to  the  chair 


H2  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

on  the  veranda,  put  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes,  and 
shook  her  head  as  if  in  apology  for  the  man  in  khaki. 
And  while  she  stood  thus  the  man  in  khaki  leaned 
forward  in  the  Morris  chair,  laid  hold  of  the  column 
of  the  veranda,  pulled  himself  to  his  feet,  staggered 
forward  a  step,  balanced  himself  as  if  with  difficulty, 
and — saluted. 

The  soldiers  on  the  platform  swung  their  hats  and 
cheered,  and  I  joined  in  the  cheer.  One  of  the  good 
fellows  wiped  his  eyes.  The  big  farmer  stood  partly 
inside  the  door,  effectually  blocking  it,  and  quite 
out  of  the  girl's  sight,  looking  on,  as  impassive  as 
a  cliff.  The  pretty  young  woman  picked  up  a  parcel 
— the  offering — which  one  of  the  soldiers  tossed  to 
her  feet,  looked  after  us  smiling  and  waving  her 
handkerchief,  and  ran  back  toward  the  house.  The 
train  picked  up  speed  and  whisked  us  out  of  sight 
just  as  the  khaki  man  sank  back  into  the  chair,  eased 
down  by  the  woman  with  the  white  hair.  I  seemed 
to  have  seen  a  death. 

"That  was  mother/'  said  the  man  of  the  broad 
farms,  as  we  resumed  our  seats — "mother  and  Jack 
.  .  .  jest  as  it  always  hes  been.  .  .  .  Al'ays 
mother's  boy.  .  .  .  The  soldiers  comin'  from  the 
war  al'ays  stand  on  the  platform  as  they  go  by — if 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  113 

they's  room  enough — with  their  fingers  to  their  hats 
in  that  fool  way.  .  .  .  All  seem  to  know  where 
Jack  is  someway,  no  matter  what  rig'ment  they  be- 
long to.  ...  Humph ! 

"It's  something  he  done  in  the  Philippines  .  .  . 
in  the  islands.  ...  I  don't  know  where  they  are. 
.  .  .  Off  Spain  way,  I  guess.  .  .  .  They's  a 
kind  of  yellow  nigger  there,  an'  Jack  seemed  to  do 
well  fightin'  Jem.  .  .  .  They're  little  fellers  some- 
thing like  his  size,  you  know.  .  .  .  Some  high 
officer  ordered  him  to  take  a  nigger  king  on  an  island 
once;  an'  as  I  understand  it,  the  niggers  was  too 
many  f'r  his  gang  o'  soldiers.  So  Jack  went  alone 
an'  took  him  right  out  of  his  own  camp.  ...  I 
reckon  any  one  could  'a'  done  the  same  thing  with 
Uncle  Sam  backin'  him;  but  the  president,  'r  con- 
gress, 'r  the  secretary  of  war  thought  it  was  quite 
a  trick.  ...  I  s'pose  Jack's  shootin'  a  nigger  offi- 
cer right  under  the  king's  nose  made  it  a  better 
grandstand  play.  .  .  .  Anyhow,  Jack  went  out  a 
private,  an'  come  back  a  captain;  an'  every  soldier 
that  rides  these  cars  salutes  as  he  passes  the  house, 
whuther  Jack's  in  sight  'r  not.  .  .  .  Funny! 
...  All  kinds  o'  folks  to  make  a  world !" 

"Then,"  said  I,  for  I  knew  the  story,  of  course, 


H4  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

when  he  mentioned  the  circumstances,  "your  son 
Jack  is  Captain  John  Hawes?" 

He  nodded  slowly,  without  looking  at  me. 

"And  that  beautiful,  strong  girl?"  I  inquired. 

"Jack's  wife,"  said  he.  "All  right  to  look  at, 
ain't  she?  Lived  in  New  York  .  .  .  'r  Boston, 
I  f'rgit  which.  .  .  .  Folks  well  fixed.  .  .  . 
Met  Jack  in  Sanfrisco  and  married  him  when  he 
couldn't  lift  his  hand  to  his  head.  .  .  .  She'd  make 
a  good  farm  woman.  .  .  .  Good  stuff  in  her. 
.  .  .  What  ails  him?  Some  kind  o'  poison  that 
was  in  the  knife  the  nigger  soaked  him  with  when 
he  took  that  there  king  .  .  .  stabbed  Jack  jest 
before  Jack  shot  .  .  .  Foolish  to  let  him  git  in  so 
clost ;  but  Jack  never  hed  no  decision.  .  .  .  Al'ays 
whifflin'  around.  .  .  .  If  he  pulls  through,  though, 
that  girl'll  make  a  man  of  him  if  anything  kin. 
.  .  .  She  thinks  he's  all  right  now  .  .  .  proud 
of  him  as  Chloe  of  a  yaller  dress.  .  .  .  Went  to 
Sanfrisco  when  he  was  broke  an'  dyin',  they  thought, 
an'  all  that,  an'  begged  him  as  an  honor  to  let  her 
bear  his  name  an'  nuss  him.  .  .  .  And  she  knew 
how  wuthless  he  was  before  the  war,  an'  thro  wed 
him  over.  .  .  .  Sensible  girl  .  .  .  then  .  .  . 
I—" 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  115 

He  was  gazing  at  nothing  again,  and  I  thought 
the  story  ended,  when  he  began  on  an  entirely  new 
subject,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  until  the  relation  ap- 
peared. 

"Religion,"  said  he,  "is  something  I  don't  take  no 
stock  in,  an'  never  did.  .  .  .  Religious  folks  don't 
seem  any  better  than  the  rest.  .  .  .  But  mother 
al'ays  set  a  heap  by  religion.  ...  I  al'ays  paid 
my  dues  in  the  church  and  called  it  square.  .  .  . 
May  be  something  in  it  f'r  some,  but  not  f'r  me. 
I  got  to  hev  something  I  can  git  a-holt  of.  .  .  . 
Al'ays  looked  a  good  deal  like  graft  to  me  .  .  . 
but  I  pay  as  much  as  any  one  in  the  congregation, 
an'  maybe  a  leetle  more — it  pleases  mother.  .  .  . 
An'  so  does  Jack's  gittin'  religion.  .  .  .  Got  it, 
all  right.  .  .  .  Pleases  mother,  too.  .  .  .  Im- 
mense !  .  .  .  But  I  don't  take  no  stock  in  it. 

"The  doc  says  he's  bad  off." 

I  had  not  asked  the  question;  but  he  seemed  to 
feel  a  necessary  inquiry  in  the  tableau  I  had  seen. 

"He  used  to  come  down  to  the  track  when  he  first 
got  back  an'  perform  that  fool  trick  with  his  hand 
to  his  hat  when  the  soldiers  went  by  an'  they  let  him 
know.  .  .  .  Too  weak,  now;  .  .  .  failin'. 
•  .  .  Girl's  al'ays  there,  though,  when  she  knows. 


ii6  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

.  .  .  Kind  o>  hope  hell— he'll— he'll  .  .  .  You 
know,  neighbor,  from  what  she's  done  f r  him,  how 
mother  must  love  him !" 

We  had  come  to  the  end  of  his  journey,  now — a 
little  country  station — and  he  left  the  train  without 
a  word  to  me  or  a  backward  look,  his  huge  hat 
drawn  down  over  his  eyes.  I  felt  that  I  had  seen  a 
curious,  dark,  dramatic,  badly-drawn,  wildly-con- 
ceived and  Dantesque  painting.  He  climbed  into  a 
carriage  which  stood  by  the  platform,  and  to  which 
was  harnessed  a  pair  of  magnificent  coach-bred 
horses  which  plunged  and  reared  fearfully  as  the 
train  swept  into  the  station,  and  were  held,  easily 
and  by  main  strength,  like  dogs  or  sheep,  by  a  giant 
in  the  conveyance  who  must  have  been  Tom  or  Wal- 
lace. From  time  to  time,  the  steeds  gathered  their 
feet  together,  trampled  the  earth  in  terror,  and  then 
surged  on  the  bits.  The  giant  never  deigned  even  to 
look  at  them.  He  held  the  lines,  stiff  as  iron  straps, 
in  one  hand,  took  his  father's  bag  in  the  other,  threw 
the  big  horses  to  the  right  by  a  cruel  wrench  of  the 
lines  to  make  room  for  his  father  to  climb  in,  which 
he  did  without  a  word.  As  the  springs  went  down 
under  the  weight  the  horses  dash'ed  away  like  the 
wind,  the  young  man  guiding  them  by  that  iron 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  117 

right  hand  with  facile  horsemanship,  and  looking, 
not  at  the  road,  but  at  his  father.  As  they  passed 
out  of  sight  the  father  of  Captain  Hawes  turned, 
looked  at  me,  and  waved  his  hand.  I  thought  I  had 
seen  him  for  the  last  time,  and  went  back  to  get  the 
story  from  the  soldiers. 

"It  wasn't  so  much  the  way  he  brought  the  datto 
into  camp,"  said  one  of  them,  "or  the  way  he  always 
worked  his  way  to  the  last  bally  front  peak  of  the 
fighting  line.  It  takes  a  guy  with  guts  to  do  them 
things;  but  that  goes  with  the  game — understand? 
But  he  knew  more'n  anybody  in  the  regiment  about 
keepin'  well.  He  made  the  boys  take  care  of  them- 
selves. When  a  man  is  layin'  awake  scheming  to 
keep  the  men  busy  and  healthy,  there's  always  a  job 
for  him.  .  .  .  And  he  had  a  way  of  making  the 
boys  keep  their  promises.  .  .  .  And  he's  come 
home  to  die,  and  leave  that  girl  of  his — and 
all  the  chances  he's  had  in  a  business  way  if  he  wants 
to  leave  the  army.  It  don't  seem  right!  The  boys 
say  the  president  has  invited  him  to  lunch ;  and  he's 
got  sugar-plantation  and  minin'  jobs  open  to  him 
till  you  can't  rest.  .  .  .  And  to  be  done  by  a 
cussed  poison  Moro  kris!  But  he  got  Mr.  Moro — 


n8  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

played  even ;  an'  that's  as  good  as  a  man  can  ask,  I 
guess.  Hell,  how  slow  this  train  goes!" 

As  I  have  said,  I  never  expected  to  see  my  big 
farmer  again ;  but  I  did.  I  completed  my  business ; 
returned  the  way  I  came,  passed  the  great  farm  after 
dusk,  and  the  next  morning  was  in  the  city  where  I 
first  saw  him.  Looking  ahead  as  I  passed  along  the 
street  I  noticed,  towering  above  every  form,  and 
moving  in  the  press  like  a  three-horse  van  among 
baby  carriages,  the  vast  bulk  of  the  captain's  father. 
He  turned  aside  into  a  marble-cutter's  yard,  and 
stood,  looking  at  the  memorial  monuments  which 
quite  filled  it  until  it  looked  like  a  cemetery  vastly 
overplanted.  I  felt  disposed  to  renew  our  acquaint- 
ance, and  spoke  to  him.  He  offered  me  his  hand, 
and  when  I  accepted  it  he  stood  clinging  to  mine, 
standing  a  little  stooped,  the  eyes  bloodshot,  the  iron 
mouth  pitifully  drooped  at  the  corners,  the  whole 
man  reminding  me  of  a  towering  cliff  shaken  by  an 
earthquake,  but  mighty  and  imposing  still.  He  held 
a  paper  in  his  free  hand,  which  he  examined  closely 
while  retaining  the  handclasp,  and  in  a  way  I  had 
come  to  expect  of  him,  he  commenced  in  the  midst 
of  his  thought  and  without  verbal  salutation. 

"We've  buried  Jack!"  said  he. 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  119 

"I'm  deeply  sorry !"  said  I. 

"Well/'  said  he,  "maybe  it's  just  as  well.  .  .  . 
He  was  .  .  .  you  know!  .  .  .  But  mother 
takes  it  hard — hard!  .  .  .  I'm  contractin'  fr  a 
tombstun.  .  .  .  He  wanted  to  see  me  ...  at 
the  last.  .  .  .  'Dad/  says  he,  jest  as  he  used  to 
when  he  was  .  .  .  was  a  little  feller,  ...  'I 
want  you  to  forgive  me  before  I  die.  .  .  .  It's  a 
big  country  where  I'm  going,  .  .  .  an'  .  .  . 
you  and  I  may  never  run  intc  each  other — so  forgive 
me !  Mother'll  find  me — wherever  I  go  ...  but 
you,  Dad,  .  .  .  for  fear  it's  our  last  chance,  let's 
square  up  now !'  ...  I  ...  I  ..." 

He  went  out  among  the  stones  and  seemed  to  be 
looking  the  stock  over.  Presently,  he  returned  and 
showed  me  the  paper.  It  was  what  a  printer  would 
call  "copy"  for  an  inscription — the  name,  the  dates, 
the  age  of  Captain  John  Hawes — severe,  laconic. 
At  the  bottom  were  two  or  three  lines  scrawled  in 
a  heavy,  ponderous  hand,  with  the  half-inch  lead  of 
a  lumber  pencil.  Only  one  fist  could  produce  that 
Polyphemus  chirography. 

"He  went  out  a  private''  it  read,  "and  came  back 
a  captain."  And  then,  as  if  by  afterthought,  and  in 
huge  capitals,  came  the  line :  "And  died  a  Christian." 


120  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

"Is  that  all  right?"  he  asked.  "Is  the  spellin'  all 
right?  ...  I  don't  care  much  about  this  soldier 
business  ...  an'  the  Christian  game  .  .  . 
don't  interest  me  ...  a  little  bit,  .  .  .  but, 
neighbor,  you  don't  know  how  that'll  please  mother ! 
'Died  a  Christian!'  .  .  .  Someway  .  .  . 
mother  .  .  .  always  loved  Jack!" 

At  the  turning  of  the  street  I  looked  and  saw 
the  last  scene  of  the  drama — one  that  will  play  itself 
before  me  from  time  to  time  in  restrospect  for  ever. 
The  great,  unhewn,  mountainous  block  was  still 
there,  standing  among  his  more  shapely  and  polished 
brother  stones,  a  human  monolith,  the  poor,  pitiful 
paper  in  his  trembling  hand. 


CHAPTER  V 

"T  FIND  myself,"  said  the  Driver,  at  the  next  ses- 
sion  of  the  Scheherazade  Society,  as  Colonel 
Baggs  called  their  camp-fires,  "in  a  whale  of  a  di- 
lemmer.  I  have  never  had  nothin'  happen  to  me 
worth  tellin'.  I  have  punched  cows  till  this  dry 
f  armin'  made  it  necessary  to  take  to  some  more  hum- 
ble callin',  and  there's  nothin'  to  cow-punchin'  that 
is  interestin'. 

"I  have  showed  you  here  in  the  Upper  Geyser 
Basin  fifteen  geysers  of  the  first  magnitude,  an'  a 
hundred  smaller  ones ;  I  have  showed  you  Old  Faith- 
ful, the  Giant,  the  Giantess,  the  Fan  and  the  River- 
side. I  have  showed  you  the  Grotto  Geyser,  which 
is  a  cross  between  a  geyser  and  a  cave.  I  have 
showed  you  the  quiescent  spring  at  its  best — the 
Morning  Glory  pool  with  more  colors  than  any  rain- 
bow ever  had.  I've  showed  you  jewels  and  giants 
and  ogres  and  sprites,  and — " 

"Here!"  shouted  the  Groom.  "Saw  off  on  that 
121 


122  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

professional  patter!  You're  not  the  driver  now,  but 
Aconite  Driscoll,  the  Cow-boy,  and  telling  us  the 
story  of  your  life.  We  have  seen  more  things  here 
than  Miinchhausen,  Gulliver,  Mandeville,.  Old  Jim 
Bridger  and  the  whole  brood  of  romancers  ever 
could  imagine.  Give  us  some  North  American  facts, 
now." 

"Well,  if  I  must,  I  must,"  said  poor  Aconite. 
"But  there's  nothin'  to  it.  I  reckon  I'd  better  nar- 
rate to  you  some  of  the  humble  doin's  of  the  J-Up- 
and-Down  Ranch  over  on  Wolf  Nose  Crick,  in  the 
foot-hills  of  the  Black  Hills — in  the  dear,  dead  past 
beyond  recall — thanks  to  the  Campbell  method  of 
dry  farmin'." 

THE  TALE  OF  TEN  THOUSAND  BOGIES 

THE  TALE  TOLD  BY  THE  DRIVER 

The  way  I  gets  into  this  story  is  a  shame  an'  dis- 
grace, an'  is  incompetent,  irreverent,  an'  immaterial, 
an'  not  of  record  in  this  case. 

Eh?  Adds  color  to  the — which?  Narrative! 
Well,  I  d'n'  know  about  that.  I  reely  couldn't  say 
as  it  does. 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  123 

But  mentionin'  color,  the  thought  of  that  little 
affair  do  make  my  face  as  red  as  a  cow-town  on  pay- 
day. When  I  turn  that  tale  loose  we'll  make  a  one- 
night  stand  of  it  by  the  grub- wagon.  It  comprises 
a  shipper's  pass  to  Sioux  City,  a  sure-thing  game  in 
that  moral  town,  which  I  win  out  by  backin'  my 
judgment  with  my  Colt,  an'  a  police  court  wherein 
the  bank  roll  and  my  pile  was  rake-off  for  the  court. 
Charge,  gamblin'.  All  hands  plead  guilty.  All  cor- 
rect says  you,  an'  quite  accordin'  to  the  statues  made 
an'  pervided;  an'  so  says  I,  ontil  I  casually  picks 
up  a  paper  in  Belle  Fourche,  an'  sees  that  it  was  a 
phoney  police  court,  not  only  owned  and  controlled 
by  the  shell  men,  which  wouldn't  be  surprising  but 
privately  installed  as  a  sort  of  accident  insurance  on 
their  other  game. 

"Hell  hath  no  fury  like  a  woman  scorned,"  Mr. 
Elkins  remarks  to  me  one  day,  but  all  that  is  goin' 
to  be  changed  when  I  ketch  up  with  that  police 
judge. 

Ridin'  the  range  makes  a  man  talkative  with  the 
scenery,  an'  when  I  sees  that  Sioux  City  paper,  I 
turns  loose  some  remarks  in  the  presence  of  a  gentle- 
man who  subsequently  turns  out  to  be  Mr.  Elkins. 

"Thanks,"  says  he. 


124  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

"When  did  you  acquire  any  chips  in  this  little 
solitaire  blasphemy  game?"  says  I,  mad,  as  a  man 
allus  is  if  he's  ketched  solloloquisin'  to  himself. 

"A  man/'  says  he,  "with  all  the  sidetracks  filled 
with  cars  o'  cattle  an'  more  comin',  an'  no  gang,  is 
in,  ex  proprio  vigore"  says  he,  whatever  that  means, 
"anywhere  where  cuss-words  is  trumps." 

He  never  smiled  except  back  in  his  eyes,  an'  I, 
likin'  his  style,  hires  out  to  him,  an'  was  third  man 
on  the  J-Up-And-Down  Ranch  from  the  day  the 
dogies  begun  to  be  unloaded,  till  James  R.  Elkins 
went  to  New  York,  with  a  roll  that  would  choke  a 
blood-sweatin'  hippopotamus. 

Third  man,  says  I,  an'  if  you  think  the  first  was 
the  Old  Man,  J.  R.  E.,  you  know,  you've  got  another 
conjecture  comin'.  Number  One  was  Mrs.  Elkins, 
an'  I  reckon  some  of  her  New  York  friends'll  enter 
into  conniptions  to  know  that,  in  lessn'  a  year,  half 
the  boys  called  her  Josie — in  their  dreams,  at  least — 
an'  some  on  'em  to  her  face ;  but  none  to  her  back, 
by  a  damsite !  The  Old  Man — a  lot  of  us  called  him 
Jim  habitual — was  a  one-lunger  when  this  dogie  en- 
terprise started,  all  mashed  in  body  in  the  collapse  of 
the  boom  at  Lattimore;  an*  them  as  thinks  I  refer 
to  any  loggin'  accident  is  informed  that  I  mean  the 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  125 

town-lot  boom  in  the  city  of  Lattimore,  as  is  more 
fully  set  forth  elsewhere,  the  same  bein'  made  by 
reference  a  part  hereof,  marked  "Exhibit  A,"  which 
(explains  the  broken  bones  aforesaid — 

"If  there's  no  objection,"  said  Colonel  Baggs,  in  a 
high  court-room  singsong,  "  'Exhibit  A'  will  be  re- 
ceived in  evidence.  G'long,  Aconite!" 

Financially,  he  was  millions  worse  than  nothing, 
if  you  can  understand  that.  Personally,  I  caint. 
Zero  is  the  bottom  of  the  spondulix  scale  fer  me,  al- 
though the  thummometer  seems  to  prove  it  ain't 
necessarily  thus.  Anyhow,  the  Old  Man  had  Josie, 
an'  any  man  from  Sturgis  to  Dog  Den  Buttes  would 

have  shouldered  all  Mr.  Elkins'  shrinkages,  espe- 

f 

cially  the  below-zero  part,  to've  had  her  jest  once 
smooth  the  hair  off  his  beaded  brow,  let  alone  take 
charge  of  him  like  a  Her' ford  heifer  does  her  fust 
calf.  Which  is  sure  the  manner  Josie  took  a-holt 
and  managed  the  Old  Man.  But  this  hain't  no  love 
story.  Quite  the  reverse.  It's  the  "Tale  of  Ten 
Thousand  Dogies." 

I  found  out  that  when  Mr.  E.  went  into  the  bulb 
in  a  business  way,  this  Wolf  Nose  Crick  Ranch  went 
around  bankruptcy,  instid  of  through  it,  becuz, 
mostly,  nobody  thought  it  wuth  a — a  thought.  An' 


126  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

to  them  as  think  strange  of  ten  thousand  steers,  even 
dogies,  bein'  bought  by  a  busted  boomer,  I'll  state 
that  any  man  with  the  same  range,  an'  not  absolutely 
a  convicted  hoss- thief,  could' ve  got  'em  by  givin'  the 
same  cutthroat  chattel  mawgitch.  Old  Aleck  Mac- 
donald  did  sure  sell  'em  to  Mr.  Elkins  reasonable, 
though,  because  James  R.  had  made  him  a  good  deal 
of  money  in  this  boom,  an'  they  was  only  dogies 
anyhow. 

Now,  this  bein'  my  evenin'  fer  tellin'  the  truth, 
I'll  state  that  ten  thousand  dogies  is  sure  a  compli- 
cated problem  on  the  range.  The  distinction  be- 
tween them  an'  reg'lar  native  range  cows  lays  in  the 
lap  o'  luxury  in  which  the  dogies  is  dangled  in  the 
farmin'  regions  where  they  originate.  The  first  little 
blizzard,  they'll  hump  up  an'  blat  fer  home  an' 
mother.  They'll  gaze  fondly  at  a  butte  ten  mile  off, 
expectin'  doors  in  it  to  slide  open,  an'  racks  full  of 
clover  an'  timothy  to  pull  out  an'  be  forked  out  to 
'em.  They  look  grieved  an'  wring  their  jaws  becuz 
water  with  the  chill  took  off  ain't  piped  to  their  stalls, 
an'  they  moan  'cause  they  ain't  no  stalls.  I'd  as 
soon  run  a  Women's  an'  Babies'  Home.  You  cain't 
get  it  into  their  heads  where  the  water-holes  is,  an' 
it's  allus  an  even  break  whuther  they'll  stan'  an' 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  127 

freeze  in  their  tracks,  or  chase  after  some  bunch  of 
2:10  natives  ontil  their  hooves  drop  off.  That's  why 
Macdonald  talked  as  he  did  about  'em,  as  I'm  in- 
formed. 

"Take  'em,"  says  he,  "an'  don't  flatter  yourself 
I'm  donatin'  anything.  They's  no  feed  fer  'em  in 
their  native  Iowa  at  any  livin'  price,  an'  on  the  other 
hand,  fifty  per  cent,  of  'em'll  die  gettin'  over  their 
homesickness  on  the  range.  You'll  have  it  in  fer 
me  fer  stickin*  you,  when  you  know  more  about  the 
cattle  business.  Fer  the  Lord's  sake  take  'em  before 
they  eat  me  out  of  every  dollar  I've  got  left!" 

Some  of  this  was  straight  goods,  an'  some  stall ; 
but  that  first  winter  was  a  special  providence  if  they 
ever  was  one.  So  mild  and  barmy  from  September 
to  March  that  the  prairie-dogs  forgot  to  hole  up,  an' 
Mrs.  Elkins  served  Thanksgivin'  dinner  in  the  open 
air  on  the  pizziazzy  at  the  Ranch.  An'  she  rode  the 
range  with  Jim  consecutively,  an'  said  she'd  found 
her  'finity  in  this  cattle  biz.  As  for  him,  the  main 
thing  the  matter  was  that  failure  o'  his  a-millin' 
through  his  mental  facilities.  But  this  was  their 
honeymoon,  we  found,  an'  that,  an'  no  losses  on  the 
range,  helped  his  case,  an'  by  spring  he  begun  to 
shoot  the  persiflage  into  the  gang,  an'  set  up  an' 


128  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

reach  for  things  to  beat  fours.  As  for  the  dogies, 
none  of  'em  had  the  faintest  show  fer  a  beller.  The 
grass  was  like  new-mown  hay ;  every  little  snow  was 
follered  by  a  chinook;  the  water-holes  was  brim- 
min' ;  an'  all  went  merry  as  a  marriage  bell. 

"The  fact  is,  Aconite,"  says  Mr.  Elkins,  ad- 
dressin'  me,  "I  knew  when  I  heard  that  burst  of 
phonetic  lava  from  your  lips  at  Belle  Fourche,  that 
there'd  be  no  fear  of  low  temperatures  if  you  could 
be  induced  to  stay  by  the  cows,  and  blow  off  once 
in  a  while." 

He  had  the  hot  air  under  wonderful  control,  his- 
self,  an'  felt  good  at  the  way  the  stock  was  comin' 
on — March,  April,  May,  an'  fresh  feed,  ponds  full 
o'  ducks,  cute  little  young  wolves  about  the  dens,  an' 
every  one  o'  the  ten  thousand  dogies  stretchin'  to  see 
hisself  grow.  But  the  fall — -the  fall  was  sure  a  bad 
one  fer  both  feed  an'  water.  The  dogies,  however, 
couldn't  fairly  be  called  such  any  longer,  havin'  re- 
covered from  what  Jim  called  their  acute  nostalgia, 
an'  bein'  pret'  near's  good  rustlers  as  natives.  An' 
well  it  was  fer  'em,  fer  grass  was  sca'ce,  an'  a  son- 
of-a-gun  of  a  while  between  drinks.  After  you  got 
away  from  the  crick — an'  you  jist  had  to  git  away 
f'r  grass — it  was  a  good  day's  ride  to  water,  east, 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  129 

west,  north,  south,  up'r  down.  On  the  hay-slews  we 
had  to  prime  the  rake  with  old  hay  'fore  we  could 
make  a  windrow.  Lafif  if  you  want  to,  but  they  was 
whole  outfits  with  less  hay  than  some  folks  has  gov- 
er'ment  bonds.  We  had  about  enough  to  wad  a 
shotgun,  an'  was  merchant  princes  in  the  fodder  line. 
The  steers,  lookin'  like  semi-animated  hat-racks,  as 
the  Old  Man  said,  come  through  the  cold  weather  in 
a  shrinkin'  an'  sylph-like  way,  so  thin  that  you  could 
throw  a  bull  by  the  tail  a  dum  sight  furder'n  I'd 
trust  some  folks,  an'  that's  no  dream ! 

By  this  time  Mr.  Elkins  was  a  sure-enough  cow- 
man, president  of  the  Association  and  the  biggest 
man  from  Spearfish  to  Jackson's  Hole.  He  knew 
some  confounded  joke  on  every  man  in  the  cow- 
country,  an'  not  only  called  'em  all  by  their  fust 
name,  but  had  one  of  his  own  f 'r  most  of  'em.  Mrs. 
Elkins,  havin'  pulled  him  through  his  own  dogy 
stage,  dropped  out  of  the  cow  business,  an'  devoted 
herself  to  kids.  I  knew  that  this  dogy  proposition 
was  a  sort  of  a  straw  that  Jim  Elkins  grabbed  at  as 
he  went  under,  an'  it  done  me  an'  all  the  fellers 
good  to  see  the  percentage  of  loss  so  small,  even  if 
the  brutes  wasn't  puttin'  on  weight  as  they  orto,  an' 
the  price  was  away  down,  an'  we  knew  we  shouldn't 


130  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

be  ready  to  sell  when  the  mawgitch  got  ripe.  Old 
Macdonald  was  Jim's  friend,  though,  an'  would  sure 
extend  the  note  when  it  come  of  age;  an'  fur's  we 
could  see,  these  dry  seasons  was  only  delayin'  the 
clean-up. 

So  I  thought,  an'  so  thought  the  Elkins  family,  as 
peaceful  as  a  Injun  summer  morn,  an'  as  happy  as 
skunks.  But  along  in  June  of  the  third  year,  just  in 
the  last  of  the  round-up,  out  comes  what  Elkins 
called  our  Nemmysis  in  the  form  of  a  jackleg  lawyer 
with  news  of  Macdonald's  death,  and  papers  to 
prove  it,  an'  him  appointed  executioner  of  the  estate 
of  A.  Macdonald,  diseased.  He  wanted  to  see  the 
cattle  the  estate  had  a  mawgitch  on.  I  was  app'inted 
as  his  chaperon  to  show  him  the  stock,  an'  it  bein'  a 
hurryin'  time  o'  year,  I  exhibited  to  him  ten  'r  'leven 
thousand  head  of  mixed  pickles,  and  called  it  square. 
He  didn't  know  a  cow-brand  from  one  plucked  from 
the  burnin',  an'  credited  us  with  a  township  or  two 
of  O-Bar-X  cow  stuff  I  run  him  into  the  first  day 
out.  I  didn't  feel  that  he  was  wuth  payin'  much 
notice  to,  if  he  hadn't  had  the  say  about  the  Old 
Man's  mawgitch. 

I  gathered  from  him  that  he  was  goin'  to  rearlize 
on  the  outfit  in  the  fall.  I  went  so  fur  as  to  p'int 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  131 

out  what  a  grave-robbin'  scheme  this  was,  an'  how 
this  dogy  stuff  had  been  kep'  in  the  livin'  skelliton 
department  f  r  two  years  by  drouth  an'  a  hell-slew 
of  other  troubles,  an'  couldn't  possibly  do  more  than 
pay  off  the  mawgitch,  an'  leave  us  holdin'  the  bag  in 
the  wust  country  f'r  snipe  outside  of  the  Mojave 
desert. 

"They'll  pay  out,"  says  he,  "an'  that's  all  I'm  re- 
quired to  look  out  fer." 

I  swear,  I  was  prospectin'  f'r  a  good  hole  to  plant 
him  in  all  the  rest  o'  the  trip.  I  goes  right  to  the 
ranch  when  we  pulled  in.  The  Old  Man  an'  Josie 
was  a-sittin'  in  the  firelight,  an'  she  had  the  baby, 
a  yearlin'  on  her  lap,  and  the  boy,  a  long  two-year- 
old,  in  the  crib.  Outside  of  a  nest  o'  .young  wild 
ducks,  I  never  seen  anything  softer  and  cuter.  I  re- 
ports an'  asks  instructions  as  to  the  best  way  of  dis- 
posin'  of  Mr.  Jackleg's  remains. 

"Quicklime,"  says  he  ruminatin'ly,  "is  a  good  and 
well-recognized  scheme ;  but  we  haven't  any,  Acon- 
ite, have  we  ?  Or  we  might  incorporate  him  into  that 
burnin'  lignite  bed  over  in  the  butte.  Boxin'  him  up 
an'  shippin'  him  to  fictitious  consignees  involves  a 
trip  to  the  railroad,  an'  creatin',  as  it  does,  a  bad 
odor,  an'  stickin'  a  strugglin'  railroad  company  for 


132  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

the  freight,  it  never  seemed  to  me  quite  the  Christian 
thing.  Don't  you  agree  with  me,  Aconite  ?" 

"Now,  the  God's  truth  is,  I  was  speakin'  para- 
bolically  about  this  projected  homicide,  but  no  man 
can  bluff  me,  an'  when  the  Old  Man  seemed  to  fall 
in  with  it  in  that  heart-to-heart  way,  I  made  a  light- 
nin'  cat-hop,  an'  told  him  as  sober  as  a  Keeley  alum- 
nus that  the  lignite  bed  seemed  most  judicious  to  me, 
an'  when  should  we  load  up  the  catafalque?  Then 
Mrs.  E.  breaks  in  with  a  sort  o'  gugglin'  laugh. 

"Jim,"  says  she,  "you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of 
yourself!  Mr.  Driscoll,"  addressin'  me  by  my 
name,  which  never  was  Aconite,  reely,  "Mr.  Driscoll, 
Mr.  Elkins  is  not  serious  in  his  remarks." 

"Neither'm  I,"  says  I. 

"Of  course  not,"  says  she.  "We  fully  understand 
that." 

"Sure,"  says  the  Old  Man.  "Let  the  lawyer  take 
its  course.  Which  will  be  assumin'  possession  of 
the  ten  thousand  dogies;  and  I  feel  sure  he'll  want 
to  leave  you  in  charge  of  'em.  He's  stuck  on  you, 
Aconite." 

"See  him  in  Helena  fust,"  says  I. 

"But  wait  a  minute,"  says  Mr.  Elkins.  "Some- 
body's got  to  take  charge  of  this  stuff  for  the  mort- 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  133 

gagee,  if  he  keeps  on  thinkin'  as  he  does  now. 
You're  our  friend.  It'll  be  more  agreeable  in  every 
way  to  have  you  than,  say,  Bill  Skeels,  of  the  O-Bar- 
X." 

Of  course  I  gets  roped,  thro  wed  an'  branded  at 
last,  an'  Mr.  Jackleg  goes  away  takin'  my  receipt 
f 'r  ten  thousand  head,  more  or  less,  of  steers  branded 
"Jf  "  known  in  the  cattle  business  as  "J-Up-And- 
Down,"  the  same  bein'  on  the  ranges  at  the  head- 
waters of  the;  Cheyenne,  Moreau,  Little  Missouri, 
an'  other  streams,  an'  God  knows  where  else,  more 
definitely  described  in  a  certain  indenture  of  maw- 
gitch,  and  so  forth  and  so  on,  till  death  comes  to 
your  relief.  An'  James  R.  Elkins  was  reduced  to  a 
few  hundred  white  faces  he'd  put  in  as  a  side-line, 
an'  I  f  eelin'  like  a  sheepman  unmasked ! 

Mr.  Jackleg — his  real  name  turned  out  to  be 
Witherspoon — give  me  his  instructions  from  the 
buckboard  as  he  prepares  to  pull  out,  in  the  presence 
of  the  Old  Man  an'  Mrs.  E. 

"I  was  fetched  up  on  a  farm,"  says  he,  an'  he 
looked  the  part,  "an'  I  know  a  good  deal  about  cat- 
tle. Every  animal  should  hev  water  at  least  twice  a 
day." 

"I'll  personally  see  to  it,"  says  I,  winkin'  at  the 


I34  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

Old  Man,  "that  every  steer  has  a  crack  at  the 
growler  at  least  semi-daily." 

"Another  thing/'  says  he;  "I  knew  a  herd-boy 
that  run  a  bunch  of  fifty  cows  practically  dry  by 
holdin'  'em  in  too  close  a  bunch  on  the  prairie.  Let 
'em  spread  out  so's  to  give  'em  room  to  graze." 

"Well,  fer  Gawd's  sake!"  says  I,  thinkin'  of  the 
feller's  sanity;  an'  before  I  could  finish  my  yawp, 
off  he  pelts,  leavin'  me  gaspin'. 

"Wake  up,"  says  Elkins,  shakin'  me  by  the  shoul- 
der. "If  you  git  'em  all  watered  by  bed-time,  you'll 
have  to  git  busy." 

He  sure  is  a  good  loser,  thinks  I,  ontil  I  figgered 
that  with  Josie  an'  the  kids  counted  in,  he  hadn't 
been  pried  loose  from  any  great  percentage  of  his 
holdin's  after  all. 

Now,  the  idee  was  to  round  up  an'  ship  about  the 
first  of  December,  so  the  estate  could  be  wound 
up  at  the  January  term  o'  court  Pretty  soon  things 
seemed  about  as  they  was  before.  I  went  to  the  Old 
Man  for  orders,  an'  Mr.  Jackleg's  visit  seemed,  as 
Mrs.  E.  once  said,  like  a  badly-drawn  dream.  Every 
time  I  went  to  J.  R.  E.  he  says  to  me  that  I'm  boss, 
an'  to  remember  my  instructions. 

"Obey  orders,"  says  he,  "if  it  busts  owners." 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  135 

Grass  an'  water  was  plenty  ag'in,  and  the  dogies 
was  fattin'  up.  Round-up  was  drawin'  on  just  as 
prospects  f 'r  profit  begins  to  brighten.  It  seemed  a 
sort  of  a  hash  of  midnight  assassination,  poisonin' 
water-holes,  givin'  away  a  podner,  an'  keepin'  sheep, 
to  ship  them  ten  thousand  then.  An'  all  the  time  the 
Old  Man  was  a-bearinj  down  about  obeyin'  orders, 
and  beggin'  me  to  remember  Mr.  Jackleg's  partin' 
words,  an'  repeatin'  that  sayin'  about  obeyin'  orders 
if  it  busted  owners.  The  thing  kep'  millin'  an'  millin' 
in  my  brain  till  I  got  into  the  habit  of  sett  in'  around 
an'  sweatin'  heinyous,  ontil  I'd  come  to  with  a  start, 
in  the  middle  of  a  pool  of  self-evolved  moisture  filled 
with  wavin'  rushes,  an'  embosomin'  acres  of  floatin' 
water-lilies !  That's  the  sort  of  sweater  I  am  when 
a  little  worried.  Fin'ly  I  turned  on  the  Old  Man 
like  a  worm — a  reg'lar  spiral  still-worm. 

"How  in  everlastin'  fire,"  says  I,  not  just  like 
that,  "am  I  to  see  that  every  dogy  gits  two  swigs  a 
day  on  these  prairies,  an'  wherein  am  I  to  take  any 
notice  of  that  shyster's  fool  talk  about  rangin' 
wide?" 

"Well,"  says  he,  "you  know  there's  pools  an' 
water-holes  scattered  from  here  to  the  Canada  line, 
an'  from  the  Missouri  to  the  Continental  Divide.  A 


136  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

few  head,  dropped  here  an'  there,  handy  to  water, 
would  be  apt  to  live  more  accordin'  to  the  hydro- 
pathic ideas  of  the  executor  of  the  will  of  A.  Mac- 
donald,  diseased.  At  the  same  time  you  would  be 
conformin'  to  his  remarkable  correct  hyjeenic  no- 
tions as  to  segregation." 

"Hyjeenic  y'r  grandmother!"  says  I,  f'r  the  siti- 
wation  called  f'r  strong  language.  "They  couldn't 
be  rounded  up  in  a  year;  an'  it's  damn  nonsense, 
anyhow,  to  foller  the  so-called  idees  of  a — " 

"Oh,  I  see,"  says  he,  in  a  sort  of  significant  way. 
"I  see :  it  would  be  a  slow  round-up.  Maybe  my  in- 
trusts blinds  me  to  those  of  the  people  you  represent. 
A  slow  round-up  wouldn't  hurt  me  any!  But,  of 
course,  you  stan'  f'r  the  mawgitchee's  intrusts,  an* 
are  nat'rally  hostyle — " 

I  set  sort  o'  numbed  f'r  a  minute.  A  new  thing 
was  a-happenin'  to  me,  to  wit,  an  idee  was  workin' 
itself  into  my  self-sealin',  air-tight,  shot-proof, 
Harveyized  skull.  Talk  about  your  floods  o'  light! 
I  got  what  Doc  calls  a  Noachian  deluge  of  it  right 
then. 

"Sir,"  says  I,  "  'an'  Madam,  truly'"— quot  in' 
from  a  pome  Mrs.  E.  had  been  readin' — "I  think 
I  see  my  duty  clear  at  last !  If  I  fin'ly  hev  grasped 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  137 

it,  my  labors  requires  my  absence/'  says  I,  "an'  I'll 
see  you  later." 

Mr.  Elkins  laughed  a  sort  of  a  Van  Triloquist's 
chuckle.  Josie  Elkins  comes  up,  an'  stannin'  close  to 
me  in  that  maddenin'  way  o'  hern,  sort  o's  if  she's 
climbin'  into  your  vest  pocket,  she  squose  my  hand, 
an'  says  she,  "Mr.  Driscoll,  we  know  that  you'll  be 
true  to  any  trust  reposed  in  you!  An'  to  your 
friends!"  An'  at  the  word  "friends"  she  sort  of 
made  sunbeams  from  her  eyes  to  mine,  an'  pressed 
my  hand  before  breakin'  away,  as  much  as  to  say 
that,  speakin'  o'  friends,  the  ones  that  had  reely 
drunk  from  the  same  canteen  an'  robbed  watermelon 
patches  together  from  earliest  infancy  was  her  an' 
me.  Holy  Mackinaw!  I  went  out  into  the  wilder- 
ness givin'  thanks  an'  singin'  an'  cussin'  myself,  at 
peace  with  all  the  world. 

I  flatter  myself  that  the  work  done  upon,  or  ema- 
natin'  from  the  J-Up-And-Down  Ranch  from  that 
time,  f'r  a  spell,  stands  in  a  class  by  itself  in  cow- 
country  annuals.  It  begins  with  a  sort  o'  quarterly 
conference  of  the  punchers.  I  gives  'em  a  sermon 
something  as  f oilers : 

"Fellers,"  says  I,  "it's  been  borne  in  upon  me  that 
these  dogies  need  drivin'  where  they's  fewer  cows 


138  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

to  the  cubic  inch  o'  water.  Moreover,  they're  in  too 
much  of  a  huddle.  Here's  the  hull  ten  thousand 
cooped  up  within  twenty  to  thirty  mile  of  the  spot 
whereon  we  stand.  You  cain't  swing  a  bob-cat  by 
the  tail,"  says  I,  "without  scratchin'  their  eyes  out. 
It  vi'lates  the  crowded  tenement  laws.  It  corrupts 
the  poor  little  innercent  calves.  It's  a  Mulberry 
Street  shame.  You  are  therefore  ordered  an'  di- 
rected to  disseminate  these  beeves  over  a  wider  ex- 
panse of  the  moral  heritage.  You,  Doc,  take  Ole  an' 
the  Greaser,  an'  goin'  south  an'  west  with  as  many 
as  you  can  round  up,  drop  off  a  carload  'r  so  at  every 
waterin'  place  an'  summer  resort  up  the  Belle 
Fourche  an'  the  North  Fork,  over  onto  the  Powder, 
an'  as  fur  as  Sheridan.  When  yeh  git  short  o'  cows, 
come  back  f'r  more.  There  ain't  no  real  limits  to 
yer  efforts  short  o'  the  Yellowstone.  We  must  obey 
Mr.  Jackleg's  orders  about  huddlin'.  I'll  give  Ab- 
salom an'  Pike  the  Little  Missouri,  the  Cannon  Ball 
and  the  Grand  valleys.  Git  what  help  you  need;  I 
grant  power  to  each  of  yeh  to  send  f'r  persons  an' 
papers  an'  administer  oaths,  if  necessary.  I'll  take 
my  crew  an'  try  to  gladden  the  waste  places  along 
the  Moreau  an'  Cheyenne  an'  White  Rivers  with 
dogies.  Get  your  gangs,  an'  scatter  seeds  o'  kindness 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  139 

an'  long  four-year-olds  from  hell  to  breakfast.  For 
as  yeh  sow  even  shall  yeh  reap.  If  a  critter  smothers 
from  crowdin'  sev'ral  to  a  township  these  hot  nights, 
somebody's  goin'  to  be  held  personally  responsible  to 
me.  You  hear,  I  s'pose?" 

"Is  this  straight  goods,  Aconite  ?"  says  Doc. 

"Am  I  a  perfessional  humorist,"  says  I,  "or  am  I 
the  combined  Fresh  Air  Fund,  S.  P.  C  A.,  and 
Jacob  A.  Riis  of  these  yere  hills?  Am  I  the  main 
squeeze  of  this  outfit,  an'  the  head  of  a  responsible 
gover'ment,  or  am  I  not?  Hit  the  grit,"  says  I,  "an' 
begin  irradiatin'  steers." 

Obedience  is  a  lovely  thing,  fellers,  an'  a  man 
poised  in  an  air-ship  a  few  thousan'  feet  above  a 
given  pi'nt  som'eres  in  the  neighborhood  o'  the  Hay 
Stack  Buttes,  armed  with  a  good  long-range  peekeri- 
scope,  might  have  observed  a  beautiful  outbust  of  it, 
all  that  golding  autumn,  on  the  part  of  a  class  of 
men  presumably  onsubordinate — the  ungrammatical 
but  warm-hearted  cow-boys.  They  preached  a  mixed 
assortment  o'  fair-to-middlin'  steers  unto  all  men. 
The  Ten  Thousand  was  absorbed  into  the  landscape 
of  four  great  states,  like  a  ship-load  o'  Swedes  into 
the  Republican  party.  The  brethren  of  the  ranches 
heared  gladly  the  gospel  of  obeyin'  orders,  an'  wher- 


140  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

ever  a  wisp  of  cows  amountin'  to  more  than  a  double 
handful  congregated  together  in  one  place,  there 
was  some  obejient  son  of  a  gun  in  the  midst  of  'em, 
movin'  'em  along  towards  the  bubblin'  springs,  green 
fields  an'  pastors  new  of  Mr.  Jackleg's  orders.  It 
was  touchin'.  I  never  felt  so  good,  so  sort  o'  glory- 
hallelujahish  in  my  life,  as  I  did  a-ridin'  back  to 
Wolf  Nose  Crick  in  the  brown  October  weather, 
with  the  dogies  off  my  mind  an'  the  map,  thinkin' 
of  how  Mrs.  E.  had  squoze  my  hand,  sort  o'  weepful 
on  moonlight  nights,  but  stronger'n  onions  in  a  sense 
o'  juty  well  performed. 

You  can  sort  o'  dimly  ketch  onto  the  shock  it  was 
to  me,  a-drillin'  into  camp  at  Wolf  Nose  Crick  in 
this  yere  peaceful  frame  of  mind,  to  find  Mr.  Jackleg 
there,  madder'n  a  massasauga,  an'  perfec'ly  shame- 
ful in  his  feelin's  towards  me. 

"Where's  these  ten  thousand  head  o'cattle,  Dris- 
coll?"  he  hollers  on  seein'  me.  "Here's  your  receipt 
for  'em;  where's  the  stock?" 

"Calm  yourself/'  says  I,  droppin'  my  hand  to  my 
gun ;  "the  dogies  is  all  right.  The  dogies  is  out  yan 
in  the  most  unhuddled  state  of  any  outfit  on  the 
range,  fur  from  the  slums  of  Wolf  Nose  Crick  an' 
their  corruptin'  influences,  drinkin'  at  the  pure 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  141 

springs  o'  four  great  American  commonwealths,  lay- 
in'  on  fat  like  aldermen,  an5  in  a  advanced  state  of 
segregation.  Your  orders,"  says  I,  tickled  to  think 
how  I'd  remembered  langwidge  so  fur  above  my  sta- 
tion in  life,  "your  orders  was  to  put  'em  next  to  the 
damp  spots,  an'  keep  'em  fur  apart,  an'  has  been 
obeyed  regardless." 

Up  to  that  time  I  had  looked  upon  him  with  con- 
tempt; but  the  way  he  turned  in  an'  damned  me 
showed  how  sorely  I'd  misjudged  him.  As  my  re- 
spect fer  him  riz,  it  grew  important  not  to  let  him 
go  on  so,  f 'r  I  couldn't  let  any  reel  man  talk  to  me 
that-a-way,  an'  in  less  time  than  it  takes  to  mention 
it,  I  had  the  boys  a-holdin'  me,  and  Mr.  Jackleg 
stannin'  without  hitchin'. 

"I  may  hev  been  hasty  in  my  remarks,"  says  he  ; 
"but  I've  been  out  with  all  the  men  I  could  git  f'r 
two  weeks,  an'  how  many  of  our  herd  do  you  s'pose 
I  have  been  enabled  to  collect  ?" 

"Not  knowin',  cain't  say,"  says  I. 

"Just  a  hundred  an'  fifty-seven!"  says  he. 

"Good !"  says  I.  "You've  got  no  kick  comin'.  I 
couldn't  have  done  better  myself.  But  you  won't 
git  as  many  in  the  next  two  weeks!  Cheer  up;  the 
wust  is  yet  to  come !" 


142  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

An'  at  that  he  flies  off  the  handle  ag'in,  an'  lights 
out  f'r  the  East,  with  the  estate  all  unwound,  I 
s'pose. 

Now,  everybody  knows  the  rest  of  this  story. 
Everybody  knows  how  grass  an5  water  an'  winters 
favored  the  range-stuff  f'r  the  next  two  years. 
Them  dogies  was  as  well  off  's  if  they'd  been  in  up- 
holstered sheds  eatin'  gilded  hay.  When  ol'  Dakoty 
starts  out  to  kill  stock,  she  reg'lar  Mountain-Med- 
ders-Massacres  'em ;  but  when  she  turns  in  to  make 
a  feed-yard  of  herself,  she's  a  cow  paradise  without 
snakes.  The  hist'ry  of  these  dogies  illustrates  this 
p'int,  an'  shows  our  beautiful  system  of  enforcin' 
honesty  in  marketin'  range  cattle  whereby  the  active 
robbery  is  confined  to  the  stock-yards  folks  and  the 
packers,  where  it  won't  do  no  moral  harm.  As  was 
perfectly  square  an'  right,  the  brand  inspectors  at 
Omaha,  Sioux  City,  Chicago  an'  Kansas  City  was 
on  the  lookout  f'r  J-Up-And-Down  steers  in  the  in- 
trusts of  Mr.  Jackleg's  mawgitch;  an*  after  every 
round-up,  some  on  'em  would  dribble  in  with  the 
shipments,  an'  be  sold  an'  proceeds  gobbled  accordin' 
to  Hoyle.  An'  when  things  got  good — dogies  about 
the  size  of  Norman  hosses,  an'  as  fat  as  Suffolk  pigs 
— the  word  goes  out  from  Wolf  Nose  Crick  to  every 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  143 

ranch  on  the  range,  that  the  anti-slum  crusade  was 
off,  an'  J-Up-And-Down  stuff  was  to  be  shipped  as 
rounded  up.  F'r  weeks  an'  months,  I'm  told,  pret' 
near  every  car  had  some  of  'em.  Top  grassers,  they 
was  at  last,  in  weight  an'  price,  an'  when  the  half 
of  'em  was  in,  the  estate  of  A.  Macdonald,  diseased, 
was  wound  up,  tight  as  a  drum,  intrust  an'  princi- 
pal, an'  Jim  Elkins  had  left  a  little  trifle  o'  five  thou- 
sand beeves,  wuth  around  a  hundred  apiece,  free  an' 
clear,  an'  the  record  of  Aconite  Driscoll,  as  a  phi- 
lanthropist, a  humannytarian,  an'  a  practical-cow- 
puncher,  was  once  more  as  clear  as  a  Christian's  eye. 
An'  this  is  how  Jim  Elkins  got  his  ante  in  this 
New  York  game  he's  a-buckin'  so  successful.  An' 
so  it  was  that  my  little  meet-up  with  a  Sioux  City 
shell-man,  which  I'm  lookin'  fer  yit,  results  in  a 
reg'lar  Pullman  sleeper  trip  to  Chicago,  where  I'm 
the  guest  of  honor  at  a  feedin'  contest  instituted  by 
Mr.  James  R.  Elkins,  whereat  Mr.  Jackleg — Wither- 
spoon,  I  mean,  and  dead  game  after  all,  if  any  one 
should  inquire — makes  a  talk  about  the  pleasure  it 
affords  all  of  us  to  see  our  old  friend  Elkins  restored 
to  those  financial  circulars  where  he  was  so  well 
known,  an'  so  much  at  home ;  an'  alludin'  to  me  as 
restorer-in-chief  by  virtoo  of  my  great  feet,  an' 


144  YELLOWSTONE   NIGHTS 

losin'  ten  thousand  dogies  so  that  Pinkerton  himself 
couldn't  find  'em  ontil  the  wilderness  saw  fit  to  dis- 
gorge 'em  in  its  own  wild  an'  woolly  way.  An'  fin'ly 
I'm  called  on  an'  made  to  git  up,  locoed  at  the 
strange  grazin'  ground,  but  game  to  do  my  best,  an' 
after  millin'  awhile,  "I'm  here,"  says  I,  "owin'  to 
my  eckstrordinary  talent  f 'r  obeyin'  orders.  I'm  told 
to  come  hither,  an'  I  at  once  set  out  to  prove  my 
effectiveness  as  a  come-hitherer.  As  f'r  losin'  ten 
thousand  dogies,  I  cain't  see  what  that  has  to  do 
with  my  great  feet.  An'  right  here/'  I  says,  "I  wish 
to  state  that  I  onst  lost  something  else,  to  wit,  my 
val'able  temper  at  something  done  'r  said  by  a  gen- 
tleman now  present,  for  all  of  which  I  begs  pardon 
of  Mr.  Jackleg — Mr.  Witherspoon,  I  means,"  says 
I,  an'  everybody  hollers  an'  pounds,  him  most  of  all, 
but  redder'n  a  turkey,  "an'  I  wish  to  state  that  it 
does  me  good  to  feel  that  harmony  and  peace  be- 
tween him  an'  me  is  restored.  Here  in  Chicago," 
says  I,  "him  an'  me  can  git  together  on  the  platform 
of  feedin'  in  bunches,  without  dehornin';  with  the 
paramount  issue  to  go  before  the  people  on,  how- 
ever, that  old  plank  o'  his'n  declarin'  f'r  frekent 
drinks!" 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  145 

After  that,  I  don't  remember  what  eventuated — 
not  quite  so  clear. 

'"I  told  you,"  said  the  Bride,  as  the  party  broke  up 
for  the  night,  "that  we'd  get  some  local  color." 

"Alas!"  replied  the  Artist.  "This  is  like  the  local 
color  of  Babylon  and  the  Shepherd  Kings — a  tradi- 
tion and  a  whisper  borne  on  the  night  breeze,  of 
things  that  were.  O,  Remington!  Remington!" 


CHAPTER  VI 

T3ROFESSOR  HOGGS  was  in  a  brown  study 
from  the  time  his  name  emerged  from  the  hat  on 
starting  from  the  Upper  Geyser  Basin,  until  the 
equipage  of  the  Seven  Wonderers,  as  the  Poet  called 
the  party,  reached  the  Thumb  Lunch  Station  on 
Yellowstone  Lake,  nineteen  miles  to  the  east — which 
drive  they  made  between  breakfast  and  luncheon. 
The  Colonel  had  telephoned  ahead  for  a  special  ban- 
quet for  the  eight  that  night,  at  which  Professor 
Boggs  was  to  tell  his  story,  and  civilized  life  was 
to  be  resumed  for  the  nonce — -"To  prevent/'  as  the 
Colonel  explained,  "our  running  wild  so  that  we'll 
have  to  be  blindfolded  and  backed  onto  the  cars  when 
we  get  back  to  Gardiner."  All  up  the  pleasant  Fire- 
hole  Valley,  the  Professor  worked  at  a  packet  of 
papers  which  he  took  from  his  bag. 

"I'll  bet  he  gives  us  an  essay  on  some  phase  of 
rural  education,"  challenged  the  Artist,  with  no 
takers. 

146 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  147 

Past  the  exquisite  Kepler  Cascade  they  went,  after 
a  stop  which  filled  all  except  the  Hired  Man  and  the 
Professor  with  delight.  When  the  party  alighted  for 
the  walk  of  half  a  mile  to  the  Lone  Star  Geyser, 
these  two  remained  with  the  surrey — the  Professor 
busy,  the  Hired  Man  lazily  smoking.  His  mental 
film-pack  was  exhausted.  Spring  Creek  Canon 
proved  another  of  those  comforting  features  which 
relieve  the  strain  of  constant  astonishment  in  the 
Park — the  narrow  and  winding  canon,  with  its 
homelike  rocks  and  cliffs,  topped  by  inky  evergreens, 
shut  them  in  like  some  comforting  shelter  against 
the  tempest  of  the  marvelous.  Down  this  wild  glen 
tumbled  a  clear  stream  of  cold  water,  bordered  with 
ferns,  willows  and  alders.  The  Bride  scooped  up  a 
little  of  the  water  in  her  hand  and  drank  it. 

"Isn't  it  funny?"  she  asked. 

"Isn't  what  funny?"  asked  the  Groom. 

"To  find  water  actually  cool  and  clear,  and  flow- 
ing down  a  glen  of  just  rocks,  with  no  steam,  or  rain- 
bow colors,  or  anything  but  good  earth  and  stones  ? 
I  feel  like  one  just  out  of  some  sort  of  inferno." 

"The  first  feller  to  roam  these  here  hollers,"  said 
Aconite,  "was  a  guy  named  John  Colter.  He  came 
out  with  the  Lewis  and  Clark  expedition,  and 


148  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

Stopped  on  the  way  back  to  trap.  That  was  about 
1807.  He  got  into  the  Park  some  way,  and 
when  he  emerged  he  told  of  it.  And  there  was 
where  the  fust  reppytation  for  truth  an'  veracity 
was  blighted  by  the  p'isenous  exhalations  of  this 
region  of  wonders/' 

"Was  he  Jimbridgered  ?"  asked  the  Artist 
"Washewhiched?" 

"Jimbridgered ;  Marcopoloed ;  Miinchhausened ; 
Mandevilled;  Driscolled;  placed  in  the  Ananias 
Club?" 

"He  shore  was,"  replied  Aconite.  "W'y  this  place 
was  called  Colter's  Hell  from  Saint  Joe  to  Salt  Lake 
by  them  as  didn't  believe  in  it.  'Whar'd  this  eventu- 
ate ?'  a  puncher'd  say  to  a  feller  that  had  seen  some- 
thing. 'In  Colter's  Hell'  another  would  say,  meanin' 
that  it  never  did  occur — an'  if  he  didn't  smile  when 
he  said  it,  there'd  be  gun  play.  An'  hyar  was  all 
them  marvels  that  Colter'd  seen,  and  more,  all  the 
time!" 

At  Craig  Pass,  the  cayuses  were  stopped  so  that 
all  might  feast  their  eyes  on  the  little  Isa  Lake, 
frowned  on  by  stern  precipices,  but  smiling  up  into 
the  blue,  its  surface  flecked  with  water-lilies. 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  149 

"An'  hyar,"  said  Aconite,  "we  hev  a  body  of 
water  that  at  one  end  empties  into  the  Atlantic 
Ocean's  tributaries,  an'  at  the  other  waters  the 
Pacific  slope." 

"Which  is  which?"  asked  the  Colonel. 

"The  east  end  runs  into  the  Pacific,  and  the  west 
into  the  Atlantic,"  replied  Aconite,  quite  truthfully. 

"What's  that!"  exclaimed  the  Hired  Man.  "Do 
yeh  mean  to  say  we've  got  over  on  the  coast  by  driv- 
in'  east — toward  loway?" 

"You've  said  'er,"  said  Aconite. 

"I  tell  you,"  said  the  Hired  Man,  as  the  others  be- 
gan studying  their  maps  to  clear  up  this  geographic 
anomaly,  "I  tell  you  that  there  ain't  no  way  of  un- 
derstandin'  the  'tother-end-toness  of  this  place,  ex- 
cept by  cayin'  that  the  hull  thing  is  a  gigantic  streak 
of  nature." 

"The  most  rational  explanation,"  said  the  Groom, 
"that  I've  heard.  Mr.  Hired  Man  sets  us  all  right. 
Drive  on,  Aconite !" 

Down  Corkscrew  Hill  they  volplaned,  thrilled  and 
somewhat  scared  by  the  speed  of  the  cayuses,  which 
flew  downward  in  joyful  relief  at  the  cessation  of 
the  uphill  pull  to  the  pass.  At  the  bottom  there  was 


ISO  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

a  halt  to  afford  a  glimpse  of  Shoshone  Lake,  and 
far  off  to  the  south  the  exquisite  Tetons,  their  sum- 
mits capped  with  pearl.  The  visit  to  Shoshone  Lake 
with  its  gorgeous  geysers  was  to  be  postponed  until 
after  they  should  arrive  at  the  thumb  of  Yellowstone 
Lake,  and  make  camp. 

An  hour  of  steady  driving  succeeded.  They 
drowsed  in  their  seats,  torpid  from  the  early  start 
and  the  days  of  strenuous  sight-seeing.  The  road 
ran  through  a  quiet  forest,  and  there  was  some- 
thing not  unpleasant  in  the  fact  that  the  curtain  of 
trees  shut  off  the  view — until  suddenly  at  a  turn  in 
the  highway,  there  burst  upon  their  sight  that  most 
marvelous  of  inland  seas,  Yellowstone  Lake. 
Straight  away  extended  its  waters,  for  twenty  miles, 
to  the  dim  shores  of  Elk  Point,  where  the  pines  car- 
ried the  wonderful  landscape  upward,  their  gloom 
cutting  straight  across  the  view,  between  the  mirror- 
like  sheen  of  the  lake,  to  timber-line  on  the  azure 
Absarokas,  standing  serenely  across  the  eastern  sky, 
their  serrated  summits  picked  out  with  snow  against 
the  blue. 

A  huge  chalice  lay  the  lake,  reared  to  a  height 
of  a  mile  and  a  half  above  the  dusty  and  fur- 
rowed earth  where  folk  plow  and  dig  and  make 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  151 

their  livings,  the  crown  jewel  of  the  continent's  dia- 
dern,  unutterably,  indescribably  lovely,  filled  with 
crystalline  dew.  The  tourists  caught  their  breaths. 
Aconite  said  nothing.  For  a  long  time  they  stood, 
until  the  horses  began  to  move  backward  and  for- 
ward, uneasy  at  the  unwonted  stay.  The  Bride  was 
holding  the  Groom's  hand,  her  eyes  glistening  with 
tears. 

They  passed  the  lovely  little  Duck  Lake,  unmind- 
ful of  its  prettiness,  and  drew  up  at  the  lunch  station, 
where  they  remained  unconscious  of  their  hunger 
until  the  memory  of  the  splendors  of  the  lake  were 
first  dulled,  and  then  obliterated  by  the  scent  of  the 
bacon  which  Aconite  was  frying.  The  Hired  Man 
ate  valiantly,  lighted  his  pipe,  and  sighed. 

"That  was  all  right,"  said  he. 

'Thanks/'  said  Aconite.  "It  cost  forty  cents  a 
pound,  an'  orto  be  good." 

"I  meant,"  said  the  Hired  Man,  "that  view  o'  the 
lake  from  back  yonder." 

Night  brought  dinner,  and  that  appetite  for  it 
which  outdoors  gives  to  healthy  folk,  at  eight  thou- 
sand feet  above  the  sea.  After  the  eating  was  well 
and  thoroughly  done,  the  Professor  responded  to 


152  YELLOWSTONE   NIGHTS 

the  call  for  his  story.  He  rose  solemnly,  bowed  to 
the  assemblage,  arranged  his  papers,  cleared  his 
throat,  and  began. 

A  BELATED  REBEL  INVASION 
THE  PROFESSOR'S  STORY 

Unlike  the  rest  of  you,  I  am  no  mere  seeker  after 
pleasure.  I  am  an  outcast  from  my  native  Iowa.  I 
have  held  high  and  honorable  office,  and  I  have  been 
treated  as  was  Coriolanus  of  old.  I  am  the  victim 
of  the  ingratitude  of  republics,  as  expressed  in  a 
direct  primary  in  Stevens  County,  Iowa.  I  am  on 
my  way  to  the  great  new  West,  where  I  shall  seek  to 
serve  newer  communities  where  perfidy  may  not  be 
so  ingrained  in  the  nature  of  the  body  politic.  And 
I  shall  shun  relations  other  than  professional  ones, 
with  persons  of  youth,  beauty,  charm,  and  feminine 
gender.  For  by  these  I  am  a  sufferer.  I  have  with 
me  my  notes,  and  to  you  is  given  the  first  hearing  of 
my  side  of  a  case  which  may  become  historic. 

"The  contest  is  unequal,"  says  Epictetus,  "be- 
tween a  charming  young  girl  and  a  beginner  in 
philosophy."  Let  this  be  remembered  when  I  am 
blamed  for  the  havoc  wrought  upon  my  political  edu- 
cational career  in  Stevens  County,  Iowa,  by  Miss 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  153 

Roberta  Lee  Frayn  of  Tennessee.  Not  that  I  am  a 
beginner  in  philosophy.  The  man  who,  at  my  age, 
has  been  elected  county  superintendent  of  schools 
is  no  mere  tyro  in  the  field  wherein  Epictetus  so 
distinguished  himself.  But  neither  does  the  word 
"charming"  adequately  describe  Miss  Frayn,  unless 
one  trace  back  the  word  "charm"  to  its  more  dia- 
bolically significant  root.  I  expect  to  write  this,  my 
apologia,  and  leave  the  verdict  to  posterity. 

No  citizen  of  Stevens  County  is  likely  to  be  igno- 
rant of  the  manner  in  which  Miss  Frayn  was  de- 
posited in  my  mother's  farmyard  by  the  wrecking 
of  a  railway  train,  or  how  her  grandfather,  Colonel 
Kenton  Yell  Frayn,  died  there  in  her  arms  and  left 
the  young  girl  penniless.  Judge  Worthington,  here- 
after to  be  mentioned,  was  on  the  train  and  doubt- 
less assisted  in  extricating  Miss  Frayn  and  her 
grandfather  from  the  wreckage,  but  I  feel  that  my 
own  efforts  were  more  effective  than  was  reported. 
We  left  the  young  woman  in  the  care  of  my  mother, 
and  I  took  the  judge  with  me  in  my  buggy. 

He  was  much  distraught  as  we  rode  along.  I 
tried  to  say  something  in  the  way  of  furthering  my 
candidacy  for  the  office  I  now  hold;  but  he  re- 
pulsed me. 

"For  God's  sake,  Oscar,"  I  remember  him  to  have 


154  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

said,  "don't  try  to  electioneer  me  until  I  can  get  out 
of  my  mind  the  image  of  that  poor  young  girl  and 
her  dying  grandfather!" 

I  do  not  care  to  criticize  the  judiciary,  but  will  say 
that  Judge  Worthington's  early  promotion  to  the 
bench  and  his  undeniable  comeliness  of  person  have 
in  a  measure  induced  in  him  a  certain  arrogance. 

I  was  triumphantly  elected.  I  went  to  Boston  and 
won  recognition  so  far  as  to  be  placed  on  the  sub- 
committee for  the  investigation  of  Tone-Deafness 
in  the  rural  schools,  in  the  superintendents'  section 
of  the  National  Teachers'  Association. 

"Gee !"  ejaculated  the  Hired  Man. 

Feeling  the  growing  breadth  and  fullness  of  life  I 
returned  and  assumed  my  office.  Then  it  was  that 
the  Frayn  episode  may  be  said  to  have  begun,  in  a 
letter  from  my  brother  Chester,  which  I  have  here, 
and  which  runs,  using  an  undignified  diminutive : 

"DEAR  Oc : 

"We  would  like  to  see  you.  Mother  and  all 
are  well,  and  glad  you  pulled  through,  even  if  you 
did  run  behind  the  ticket  so.  Am  feeding  three  loads 
of  steers,  and  they  are  making  a  fine  gain.  Middle- 
kauff's  look  rough,  and  all  the  feeders  think  he'll 
lose  money  on  them.  He  paid  four  cents  for  them. 
This  is  about  all  the  news.  Can't  you  appoint  me 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  155 

your  deputy  down  here  to  examine  Miss  Frayn, 
whose  grandfather  got  killed  in  that  wreck?  She 
wants  to  teach.  She  is  a  Southerner,  but  an  awful 
nice  lady,  and  just  as  smart  as  one  of  us.  She  dreads 
to  go  to  Pacific  City  tc  be  examined,  as  she  won't 
let  ma  get  her  hardly  any  clothes.  She  is  very 
sensitive  about  money  matters,  and  I  had  to  lie  to 
her  about  the  funds  to  bury  her  grandfather  with, 
and  tried  to  slip  in  $250  more,  but  she  caught  me  at 
it  and  cried.  I  will  be  strict  and  make  her  write  out 
the  examination  properly;  so  send  along  the  ques- 
tions, and  the  appointment. 

"Yours  truly,  CHET. 

"P.  S. — Judge  Worthington's  office  is  so  near 
yours,  you  might  leave  the  appointment  and  the 
questions  in  there.  The  judge  will  bring  them  down. 
He  comes  down  quite  often  now,  because  he  says  that 
the  Boggses  and  the  Worthingtons  moved  into  Iowa 
in  the  same  wagon  train  in  an  early  day,  and  he 
thinks  it  strange  that  that  accident  that  killed  Colo- 
nel Frayn  should  have  brought  the  families  together 
again.  He  thinks  that  Miss  Frayn  will  make  a  first- 
rate  teacher,  so  you  need  not  be  backward  about  the 
appointment  and  the  questions. " 

Not  abating  one  jot  or  tittle  of  my  official  strict- 
ness, I  informed  Chester  that  Miss  Frayn  must  ap- 
pear and  be  examined  as  did  others  in  the  same 
situation.  Chester  is  an  Ames  man,  and  a  fine  judger 
and  feeder  of  cattle,  but  not  fitted  for  responsibility 
in  belles-lettres. 


156  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

Professor  Dustin,  an  elderly  and  myopic  educator 
and  the  author  of  a  monograph  on  the  Griibe 
method,  had  charge  of  the  examination  when  Miss 
Frayn  appeared.  I  found  Chester  smoking  a  vile 
pipe  in  my  lodgings  when  I  came  home. 

"Say,  Oc,"  said  he,  "this  four-eyed  old  trilobite 
won't  do.  You've  got  to  get  in  here  and  do  business 
yourself/' 

Conjecturing  that  he  meant  Professor  Dustin,  I 
inferred  that  Miss  Frayn's  papers  had  been  rejected. 
A  glance  justified  the  professor.  She  had  given 
Richmond  as  the  capital  of  the  United  States.  A 
question  in  physiology  called  for  a  description  of  the 
iris,  and  Miss  Frayn  had  answered  that,  further  than 
that,  "she"  was  a  naiad,  a  dryad,  or  a  nymph,  and 
was  pursued  by  Boreas,  or  Eolus,  or  Zephyrus  until, 
turned  into  a  flower,  she  could  say  nothing  about 
Iris.  The  handwriting  and  drawing  were  beautiful; 
but  the  pages  of  mathematics  were  mostly  blank, 
save  for  certain  splashy  discolorations  presumably 
of  lachrymatory  origin,  denoting  lack  of  self-control 
and  scholastic  weakness. 

"It  is  absurd/'  said  I,  "to  think  of  certifying  her. 
While  she  has  a  certain  measure  of  intelligence — " 

"A  certain  measure  ! '  shouted  Chester.    "If  you 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  157 

weren't  a  natural-born  saphead,  I'd — !  Come  up  to 
Aunt  Judith's!" 

I  went  with  him,  firm  in  that  solid  self-control 
which  gives  fixity  of  character  to  my  nature.  I  saw 
in  its  true  light  the  amiable  weakness  of  my  relatives 
which  made  them  slaves  to  this  girl.  I  felt  as  stern 
and  austere  as  a  public  officer  should,  and  looked  it, 
I  believe,  for  mother  was  quite  in  a  flutter  as  she 
asked  me  to  read  a  clipping  from  an  eastern  Ten- 
nessee paper  describing  the  departure  from  that  re- 
gion of  the  Frayns. 

From  this  I  learned  that  Miss  Frayn  and  the 
colonel  had  been  the  last  of  the  Frayns,  the  family 
having  been  exterminated  in  the  Frayn-Harrod  feud. 
The  colonel  had  been  an  engineer  in  Lee's  army. 
He  had  given  public  notice  on  leaving  that  at  noon 
he  would  nail  to  the  front  door  of  the  court-house, 
with  the  revolver  of  Boone  Harrod,  the  last  enemy 
shot  by  the  colonel,  his  version  of  the  origin  of  the 
feud.  He  had  carried  out  this  parting  piece  of 
bravado  with  no  disturbance  except  an  exchange  of 
shots  as  the  train  moved  away  from  the  station.  I 
was  horrified.  Was  a  person  in  this  barbarous  state 
of  culture  asking  me,  Oscar  Boggs,  member  of  the 
National  Sub-Committee  on  Tone-Deafness — ! 


158  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

"Okky,"  said  my  mother,  from  behind,  "this  is 
Miss  Frayn !" 

I  looked  at  her,  and  was  suddenly  impressed  with 
the  non-existence  of  the  material  universe,  except  as 
centered  in  and  consisting  of  eyes  of  a  ruddy  brown 
like  those  of  fine  horses,  rufous  hair  surrounding 
the  small  head  like  a  nimbus,  and  a  fused  mass  of 
impressions  made  up  of  the  abstract  concepts  of 
trimness,  fire,  elegance,  and  unconquerability.  I  have 
reported  the  matter  to  the  society  for  psychical  re- 
search, but  have  received  no  answer  as  yet.  It  was 
clearly  abnormal. 

She  placed  her  arm  about  my  mother's  waist  and 
looked  most  respectfully  at  me. 

"You  ah  the  great  man/'  said  she,  "of  the  family 
Ah  have  so  much  cause  to  love."  Here  she  stopped 
as  if  to  regain  self-control.  "Ah  wish  mah  po' 
papahs,"  she  went  on,  "had — " 

"There,  there !"  said  my  mother,  patting  her  arm. 
"It'll  be  all  right  anyway,  dear!" 

I  was  considering  what  to  say.  Her  skin  was 
clear,  white,  daintily  transparent,  and  of  a  delicacy 
our  western  girls  seldom  display  (owing,  I  surmise, 
to  climatic  influences)  ;  she  stood  there  on  Aunt 
Judith's  Persian  rug,  her  petite  figure  with  its 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  159 

rounded  curves,  half-levitated,  like  Atalanta  upon 
the  oat-heads — and  there  returned  upon  me  the  men- 
tal vertigo,  the  lack  of  cerebral  coordination,  and 
the  obliteration  of  the  material  universe. 

"Am  Ah  so  igno'ant,  really  ?"  said  she.  "Ah'm 
fond  of  children ;  and  Ah  must  find  wohk !" 

Why  did  I  hate  Dustin?  Why  could  I  not  com- 
mand my  speech  ?  I  always  rally  at  the  crises,  how- 
ever, and  did  so  in  this  instance. 

"As  for  ignorance,"  said  I,  "Sir  John  Lubbock 
says:  'Studies  are  a  means,  not  an  end.'  And  Lord 
Bacon  hath  it :  'To  spend  too  much  time  in  studies 
is  sloth.'  I  see  that  you  have  acted  on  these  maxims. 
Professor  Dustin's  astigmatism  and  myopia  ren- 
dered it  impossible  for  him  to  see  you." 

I  stopped  in  some  returning  confusion. 

"Those  dreadful  cube  roots  and  quadratics — " 
said  she. 

"The  personality  of  the  teacher,"  said  I,  "controls 
the  matter." 

I  heard  her  laugh,  a  little  delighted  laugh,  and 
found  myself  agreeing  to  the  heresy  that,  after  all, 
the  chief  thing  is  to  train  the  girls  to  be  gentle,  and 
the  boys  brave !  Then  I  gave  her  my  arm  in  to  din- 
ner. Chester,  who  had  never  offered  a  girl  his  arm 


160  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

except  at  a  dance  or  after  dark,  glared  at  me. 
Mother  was  uneasy  at  the  stirring  of  the  old  broth- 
erly antagonisms.  I  expanded,  and  told  Miss  Frayn 
that  if  all  southern  women  were  like  the  only  one  I 
had  met,  I  didn't  wonder  at  the  feuds.  Then  seeing 
whither  I  was  drifting,  I  asked  her  plans  as  to  the 
school  she  would  take,  when  I  sent  her  her  certifi- 
cate. She  said  that  "Mistah  Chestah"  was  going  to 
let  her  have  the  home  school. 

"A  boy  like  Chester/'  said  I,  "will  have  little  in- 
fluence with  Mr.  Middlekauff,  the  director." 

"Oh,  cut  it  out,  Oc!"  burst  in  Chester.  "I've  got 
it  all  framed  up  to  be  elected  director!"  • 

"My  political  plans,"  said  I,  "will  not  allow  of  a 
breach  between  my  family  and  Mr.  Middlekauff." 

"Well,  mine  do,"  retorted  Chester.  "You'll  take 
your  chances  with  the  Middlekauff s,  just  as  I  do!" 

It  was  not  the  occult  influence,  but  a  desire  to 
benefit  educational  conditions,  that  led  me  to  visit 
Miss  Frayn's  school  the  week  Chester's  insurgency 
placed  her  in  it.  My  memory  is  hazy  as  to  the  mat- 
ter, but  my  notes  show  that  her  weakness  was  in  the 
matter  of  organization. 

"Oh,"  said  she,  when  I  mentioned  this,  "do  you 
all  prefeh  things  so  regulah  and  poky?  It's  so  much 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  161 

mo'  pleasant  foh  the  little  things  to  be  free!"  She 
called  most  of  the  little  ones  "Honey,"  and  allowed 
much  latitude  in  whispering  and  moving  about. 
They  crowded  around  her  like  ants  to  a  lump  of 
sugar.  Some  of  them  were  beginning  to  evince  a 
laxity  of  pronunciation,  sounding  the  personal  pro- 
noun "I"  like  the  interjection  "Ah." 

In  a  few  days  I  went  back — Chester  sneered  at 
me  as  I  went  by — to  tell  Miss  Frayn  of  the  neces- 
sity of  teaching  the  effects  of  stimulants  and  nar- 
cotics according  to  the  Iowa  law.  She  was  greatly 
surprised  when  I  told  her  of  this  requirement 

"What,  daily,  Mr.  Superintendent!"  she  ex- 
claimed. 

"Daily  teaching,"  said  I.  "Our  law  requires  it." 

"It  seems  so  unnecessary,"  she  said  in  perplexity. 
"The  young  gentlemen  will  find  out  all  about  it  in 
due  time:  and  is  it  raght  to  experiment  with  the 
littlest  ones?  And  wheiah  shall  I  obtain  the  liquoh 
foh  the  demonstrations  ?" 

I  felt  strangely  overcome  at  this  astounding 
speech,  by  an  indescribable  mixture  of  tender  solici- 
tude for  her  welfare,  and  horror  at  her  fearful  mis- 
take; but  I  reproved  her  for  jesting  at  the  vice  of 
drinking. 


162  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

"Vice!"  said  she,  with  a  bubbling  laugh.  "Why, 
down  home  we-all  regyahd  it  as  an  accomplishment ! 
But  Ah  reckon  you  ah  jokin'  about  teachin'  it. 
Youah  jokes  and  use  of  the  lettah  'ah'  ah  things  Ah 
shall  nevah  get  used  to,  Ah'm  afraid;  but  Ah'm 
glad  you  don't  mean  that  about  the  drinkinV 

Despairing  of  making  her  understand,  I  left  her, 
again  conscious  of  being  under  occult  and  abnormal 
control.  I  was  astonished  to  see  in  the  school  several 
large  boys  who  must  have  been  greatly  needed  in  the 
fields.  They  looked  at  each  other  sheepishly  as  I  came 
in,  but  most  of  the  time  they  gazed  at  the  teacher, 
rather  than  at  their  books.  Not  having  the  gift  of 
prophecy,  I  could  not  see  in  their  presence  the  cloud 
that  would  soon  overshadow  my  official  life.  I  took 
their  attendance  as  proof  of  the  popularity  of  the 
school.  I  studied  the  philosophers,  and  sought  calm 
of  spirit.  Learning  from  Epictetus  that  the  earthen 
pitcher  and  the  rock  do  not  agree,  and  from  Lubbock 
that  love  at  first  sight  is  thought  by  great  minds 
actually  to  occur,  I  reexamined  my  abnormal 
psychic  symptoms  in  Miss  Frayn's  presence,  and 
prudently  refrained  from  seeking  her  society.  Poise 
alone  makes  possible  a  consistent  career,  and  this  I 
had  in  large  measure  reconquered,  when,  like  a  bolt 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  163 

from  the  blue — or  at  least  with  much  abruptness — 
into  my  quiet  office  burst  a  committee  from  the  Teal 
Lake  Township  School  Board,  accompanied  by  a 
number  of  patrons  of  the  Boggs  school — all  old 
neighbors  of  ours — headed  by  the  defeated  Mr. 
Elizur  Middlekauff.  This  could  mean  but  one  thing 
— Miss  Frayn !  The  rebel  invasion  was  at  the  door. 
"Mr.  Middlekauff,"  said  one,  "is  the  spokesman." 
"We've  got  a  grievyance,"  said  Mr.  Middtekauff, 
"a  whale  of  a  grievyance  in  our  deestrict ;  and  we've 
come  right  to  the  power-house  to  fix  it." 

"It  shall  command  my  most  careful  considera- 
tion," said  I.   "Please  state  the  case." 

"That  'ere  railroad  wreck,"  said  Mr.  Middlekauff, 
who  was  a  very  forcible  speaker  at  caucuses,  "let 
loose  on  our  people  a  scourge  in  caliker  more  pesti- 
lential than  the  Huns  and  Vandals.  We  come  to  you 
as  clothed  with  a  little  brief  authority,  an'  accessory 
after  the  fact  to  this  scourge  business." 
"I  fail,"  said  I,  "to  catch  your  meaning." 
"I  mean,"  said  he,  growing  loud,  "that  peaches- 
an'-cream  invader  from  the  states  lately  in  rebel- 
lion that  youVe  give  a  stiffkit,  an'  your  brother 
Chet  by  stratagems  an'  spiles  has  got  himself  elected 
an'  put  into  our  school.  That's  what  I  mean !" 


164  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

"I  infer,"  said  I,  "some  implied  strictures  upon 
the  character  or  school  management  or  educational 
qualifications  of  Miss  Roberta  Lee  Frayn." 

"W'l  you  infer  surprisingly  clus  to  the  truth!"  re- 
plied Mr.  Middlekauff  offensively.  "We're  a-com- 
plainin'  of  this  schoolma'am  with  the  rebil  name; 
and  of  her  onrivaled  facilities  f'r  spreadin'  treason 
an'  emotional  insanity !  Try  to  git  that  through  your 
hair!" 

Like  lightning  a  course  of  policy  occurred  to  me. 

"Are  the  defendant,"  said  I,  looking  them  over, 
"and  Mr.  Boggs,  the  director,  among  your  num- 
bers?" 

"No,"  said  Mr.  Middlekauff.  "This  is  kinder  in- 
formal. An'  besides,  we'd  crawl  out  right  where  we 
went  in  if  she  was  here.  I  tell  you  she's  a — a — irre- 
sistible force." 

"It  is  elementary,"  said  I,  "that  no  ex  parte  inves- 
tigation can  have  any  validity." 

"Now,  see  here,  Oc  Boggs !"  hissed  he,  "I  don't 
take  any  high-an'-mighty  stand-off  from  a  lunkhead 
that's  stole  my  melons  when  he  was  a  kid !  You'll 
hear  this  complaint,  see?" 

I  did  not  weaken,  but  I  allowed  his  standing  in  the 
community  and  party  to  outweigh  offensive  or- 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  165 

thoepy,  rhetoric,  and  manners.  Unofficially,  I  took 
down  the  complaint,  reserving  my  ruling.  As  the 
horrid  tale  was  told  I  grew  sick  at  the  problem  be- 
fore me.  I  glean  the  details  of  the  situation  from 
my  notes : 

Miss  Frayn  (all  these  things  are  set  down  as  as- 
serted) had  assigned  William  Middlekauff,  whose 
father  was  a  member  of  the  G.  A.  R.,  the  Confeder- 
ate side  of  a  debate  on  the  comparative  greatness  of 
Washington  and  Robert  E.  Lee,  and  had  said :  "She 
reckoned  Mr.  William  ought  to  have  won,  as  he  had 
the  strong  side."  Complained  of  as  against  public 
policy,  adhering  to  armed  insurrection,  and  giving 
aid  and  comfort  to  the  enemy.  Qucere  (per  O.  B.)  : 
Is  complaint  good  after  forty  years  of  peace,  and 
Reconstruction  ? 

All  members  of  the  committee  said  that  every  boy 
in  the  district  of  more  than  sixteen  years  of  age  was 
irresistibly  attracted  to  her  (exact  language,  "be- 
daddled  over  her,"  O.  B.).  Hence,  her  character 
must  be  "wrong"  somehow.  Two  boys,  each  claim- 
ing an  exclusive  franchise  to  sweep  out  for  her,  had 
met  in  Allen's  feed-lot  to  fight  a  duel,  and  been  dis- 
covered in  the  act  of  firing  and  tied  to  the  feed-rack 
by  Allen's  hired  man,  and  spanked  with  the  end-gate 


166  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

of  his  wagon.  Clarence  Skeen  was  poorly,  and  had 
been  found  kneeling  before  a  bench  calling  it  his 
darling  Roberta  and  begging  it  to  be  his.  Columbus 
Smith  had  turned  somnambulist,  and  his  father  had 
lost  ten  tons  of  timothy  which  "Clumb"  had  failed 
to  put  up  in  cock.  When  sleep-walking  Clumb  had 
been  heard  by  Vespucci,  his  brother  (known  as 
"Spootch"),  to  protest  with  sighs  and  groans  that 
his  heart  was  broken  and  to  ask  "Roberta"  to  shed 
one  tear  over  his  grave.  Twitted  of  this  by  his 
young  sister,  Semiramis,  Clumb  had  slapped  her  and, 
cursing  profanely,  had  assaulted  Spootch,  who  re- 
proved him,  and  had  fled  to  the  Wiggly  Creek  woods 
with  no  subsistence  but  a  loaf  of  salt-rising  bread,  a 
box  of  paper  collars,  and  a  book  of  poems.  Letter 
from  Mrs.  Smith  asking  that  this  Jezebel's  certifi- 
cate be  revoked  before  all  should  be  lost. 

Whipple  Cavanaugh  had  been  idle  and  "lawless" 
since  attending  school.  Refused  nourishment.  Pil- 
low wet  with  tears.  Kissed  Cavanaugh's  mare,  "Old 
Flora/'  on  nose  after  Miss  Frayn  had  patted  her  on 
said  spot.  Had  written  a  poem  to  Roberta,  and 
rather  than  have  it  read  publicly  by  the  hired  girl, 
who  had  found  it  under  his  pillow,  had  eaten  it, 
paper,  ink,  and  all.  Doctor  Dilworthy  called  in ;  pro 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  167 

nounced  him  in  danger  of  gastritis  and  love-sickness 
with  grave  prognosis. 

Names  of  fifteen  boys  given,  known  as  "Frayn 
Mooners,"  who  haunted  the  shrubbery  about  the 
home  of  Mrs.  Jane  D.  Boggs,  where  the  teacher 
boarded.  Six  fights  were  known  to  have  occurred 
among  them.  Tension  in  the  neighborhood  was  un- 
bearable because  of  the  loosing  by  Chester  Boggs, 
"in  violation  of  his  official  oath/'  of  a  bulldog  which 
had  bitten  Albert  Boyer,  and  thrown  his  mother  into 
nervous  prostration. 

This  epidemic  of  "worthlessness  and  sentimental- 
ity" was  spreading  outside  the  district,  as  evidenced 
by  an  excerpt  found  in  the  dog's  possession,  from 
the  upper  rear  elevation  of  the  Sunday  trousers  of 
Boliver  Fromme,  living  in  District  No.  4.  Progress 
in  the  studies  of  the  boys  confined  to  amatory  poetry 
and  pugilism,  both  unrelated  to  their  life  work. 
Iowa,  My  Iowa,  Major  Byers'  stirring  lyric,  had 
been  supplanted  by  Maryland,  My  Maryland,  in 
school  singing.  Chester  Boggs,  the  director,  refused 
to  receive  complaints,  and  was  condemned  as  equally 
affected  with  the  disease,  and  probably  a  "Mooner" 
himself.  There  was  a  certificate  of  Doctor  Dil- 
worthy  of  Teal  Lake  as  to  the  existence  of  many 


168  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

cases  of  "extreme  mental  exaltation  accompanied  by 
explosive  and  fulminant  cerebral  disturbances  trace- 
able to  mediate  or  immediate  association  with  one 
Roberta  Lee  Frayn,  an  individual  seemingly  pos- 
sessed of  an  abnormal  power  in  the  way  of  causing 
obsessions,  fixed  ideas,  aberrant  cranio-spinal  func- 
tionings,  and  cranial  tempests,  in  those  of  her  asso- 
ciates resembling  her  in  the  matter  of  age,  and  dif- 
fering from  her  in  social  habits,  hereditary  constitu- 
tion, and  sex." 

I  sank  back  in  my  chair  horrified,  with  a  sinking 
in  the  region  of  the  epigastric  plexus. 

"We  kind  o'  thought,  Oc,"  said  Mr.  Middlekauff, 
"that  thet  would  hold  yeh  f 'r  a  while." 

I  saw  the  muddled  political  relations  with  which 
this  imbroglio  teemed,  and  clung  to  delay  as  my  sole 
hope. 

"I  am  inexpressibly  shocked,"  said  I,  "and  as  soon 
as  we  can  meet  with  the  defendant  and  the  di- 
rector—" 

"What!"  shrieked  Mr.  Middlekauff.  "Her  pres- 
ent! Arter  what  them  papers  says?  And  every- 
body follerin'  her,  if  she  jest  smiles,  like  a  caff  arter 
salt!  Why,  dad  ding  me,  if  I'd  trust  myself  f'r 
more'n  a  smile  or  two.  Shell  bamboozle  the  hull 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  169 

thing  if  she's  there.  I  b'lieve  you've  got  it,  you  con- 
ceited young  sprout!  No,  sir;  decide  this  thing 
now!" 

"I  regret  the  necessity,"  said  I,  "of  asking  time  to 
get  the  opinion  of  the  county  attorney,  and  to — to — " 

"Not  by  a  dum  sight !"  roared  Mr.  Middlekauff. 
"We'll  see  what  the  court  has  to  say  on  this.  An' 
when  you're  up  f 'r  election  ag'in,  come  round,  an' 
we'll  consider  it  f'r  a  while — an'  then  you  won't 
know  you're  runnin' !" 

I  was  torn  by  conflicting  emotions  when  they  went 
away.  I  knew  that  Middlekauff  was  a  man  of  influ- 
ence. I  was  not  averse  to  seeing  Chester  rebuked  for 
his  fatuous  behavior,  and  for  tempting  me  to  a  devi- 
ation from  strict  duty.  I  felt  that  in  taking  my  stand 
with  the  "Mooners"  I  might  be  siding  with  the 
heaviest  body  of  voters  after  all.  By  these  whiffling 
winds  of  the  mind  was  I  baffled,  finding  no  rest  in 
my  works  on  didactics  and  pedagogics,  wondering 
what  Middlekauff  would  do — until  all  doubts  were 
settled  by  the  filing  of  the  case  of  The  School  Board 
of  Teal  Lake  versus  Frayn;  and  in  a  few  days  it 
came  on  for  trial  before  Judge  Worthington. 

Chester  telephoned,  asking  to  see  me.  He  came 
in  looking  thinner  than  I  had  ever  seen  him. 


1 70  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

"Do  you  know/'  said  he,  "that  this  case  old  Mid- 
dlekauff's  got  plugged  up  comes  off  this  morning?" 

"Having  been  summonsed  by  writ  of  subpoena," 
said  I  severely,  "I  am  aware  that  your  wilfulness 
in  placing  an  untried  importation  in  charge  of  our 
school,  regardless  of  her  unfitness,  or  of  my  political 
well-being,  is  this  morning  bearing  its  legitimate 
fruit  in  the  hearing  which  comes  on — not  off!  And 
I  hope  your  lack  of  consideration  for  the  welfare  of 
the  school  system,  so  largely  wrapped  up  in  my  ca- 
reer, will — " 

That  Chester  was  temporarily  insane  is  clear.  He 
flew  at  me,  seized  my  trachea  in  his  iron  hands,  com- 
pressed it  so  as  greatly  to  impede  respiration,  and 
knocked  my  head  against  the  wall,  using  incoher- 
ently certain  technical  terms  he  had  learned  at  Ames. 

"Shut  up!"  he  cried.  "You  duplex — polyphase — 
automatic — back-action — compound-wound — multi- 
polar  Ass!  Shut  up!" 

An  anatomical  chart  on  the  wall  preserved  my 
head,  and  I  retained  my  self-possession.  When  he 
let  me  down  I  took  my  station  on  the  other  side  of 
a  table  and  looked  him  in  the  eye,  strongly  willing 
that  he  quiet  down. 

"Forgive  me,  Oc,"  said  he  humbly,  "I  promised 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  171 

myself  eight  years  ago  not  to  lick  you  any  more! 
Pardon  me." 

I  forgave  him,  and  we  have  ever  since  remained 
reconciled.  He  explained  that  he  wanted  to  consult 
as  to  methods  of  concealing  from  Miss  Frayn  the 
nature  of  the  suit 

"Am  I  to  understand/5  said  I,  "that  she  does  not 
know  that  the  relief  sought  is  her  expulsion  from 
the  school?" 

"Of  course  she  don't!"  replied  Chester.  "Do  you 
think  I'd  let  her  know?  She  thinks  everybody  loves 
her.  Nobody  ever  dared  tell  her  anything  else,  either 
here  or  down  where  she  was  raised.  The  boys  down 
there  always  were  in  love  with  her.  She  don't  see 
anything  strange  in  it — and  there  isn't." 

"A  change,"  said  I,  "would  be  wholesome  for 
her." 

"She  wouldn't  know  what  to  do,"  replied  Chester. 
"And  if  she  were  to  hear  these  charges — against  her- 
self!  Why,  I  don't  know  what  she  might  not  do! 
She'd  be  absolutely  desperate.  She'd  think  she 
had  no  one  to  defend  her — and  you  know  the 
Frayn  way." 

"I  shall  not  endeavor,"  said  I,  after  consideration, 
"to  reconcile  medieval  notions  of  honor  and  personal 


172  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

dignity  with  proceedings  under  the  Iowa  Code.  Nei- 
ther do  I  feel  it  prudent  for  me  to  see  this  person." 

For  a  few  minutes  Chester  sat  grinding  his  teeth 
and  gripping  the  desk,  and  then  rushed  from  the  of- 
fice calling  me  a  white-livered  dub,  and  telling  me  to 
go  plumb  to  some  place  the  name  of  which  was  cut 
off  by  the  door's  slamming.  I  sat  in  the  office  feeling 
a  sense  of  unrest,  until  the  time  for  going  to  court, 
where  I  found  Judge  Worthington  on  the  bench, 
Chester  sitting  at  the  defendant's  table,  and  no  Miss 
Frayn. 

"Are  both  sides  ready  in  the  next  case?"  asked 
the  judge,  without  looking  at  the  calendar. 

"We  wish  to  put  the  defendant  on  the  stand  for  a 
few  questions,"  said  Beasley,  Middlekauff's  lawyer. 
"I  don't  see  her  in  court,  your  Honor." 

"Call  the  witness !"  said  the  judge ;  and  the  bailiff 
shouted  three  times:  "Robert  Lefrayne!" 

"Has  this  man  Lefrayne  been  subpoenaed?"  asked 
the  judge ;  "as  he  is  defendant,  I  don't  suppose  you 
thought  it  necessary,  Mr.  Beasley." 

We  could  all  see  that  the  mispronunciation  of  the 
name  had  misled  the  judge  as  to  the  identity  of  the 
defendant. 

"To  make  sure,"  said  Beasley,  "we  subpoenaed 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  173 

the  party.  Here  is  the  writ,  your  Honor,  with  proof 
of  service/' 

"Mr.  Clerk,"  said  the  judge,  frowning  sternly, 
"issue  a  bench  warrant!  Mr.  Sheriff,  attach  this 
witness,  and  .produce  him  at  two.  Some  of  these 
tardy  witnesses  will  go  to  jail  for  contempt  if  this 
is  repeated !  Call  your  next !" 

Chester  was  pale  as  a  ghost,  and  accosted  the 
bailiff  as  he  went  out  with  the  warrant.  Then  he 
came  back  and  listened  with  flushes  of  anger  and 
clenched  teeth  to  the  reading  of  the  pleadings,  to 
which  the  judge  seemed  to  pay  no  attention.  At  two, 
after  the  intermission,  the  bailiff,  Captain  Winfield, 
an  old  G.  A.  R.  man,  appeared  with  Miss  Frayn  on 
his  arm.  He  was  blushing  and  fumbling  his  bronze 
button,  while  she  smiled  up  at  him  in  a  charming, 
daughterly  way  that  brought  back  dangerous  symp- 
toms of  relapse  in  my  psychic  nature. 

"Call  the  witness  Lef  rayne !"  cried  the  judge. 

Light,  airy,  daintily  flushed,  she  floated  up  to  the 
bench.  The  fine  for  contempt  died  in  Forceythe 
Worthington's  breast,  as  he  stared  in  a  sort  of  de- 
lighted embarrassment. 

"It  was  raght  kahnd  of  you,  Judge  Wo'thin'ton," 
she  said,  looking  up  into  his  face,  "to  send  Captain 


174  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

Winfield  to  remahnd  me  of  mah  engagement  hyah. 
Why,  he  was  at  Franklin,  and  Chickamauga,  and 
knows  Tennessee!  And  now,  gentlemen,  what  can 
Ahdofohyou-all?" 

The  judge  stepped  down  from  the  bench  and 
handed  Miss  Frayn  to  the  witness  chair  like  a  lord 
chancellor  placing  a  queen  on  her  throne.  Beasley 
looked  at  the  witness  as  if  fascinated.  Middlekauff 
seized  him  by  the  lapel  of  his  coat. 

"Don't  look  at  her,  Beasley,  more'n  yeh  c'n  help!" 
he  whispered.  "I  tell  yeh,  it's  dangerous !" 

And  yet  /  am  selected  to  bear  blame  for  a  momen- 
tary weakness  of  the  prevailing  sort! 

"Proceed,  gentlemen!"  said  Judge  Worthington. 

Beasley  gathered  up  his  papers.  "Are  you  the  de- 
fendant?" asked  he. 

"Ah  don't  quite  gathah  youah  meanin'  suh,"  said 
she,  "but  Ah  think  not,  suh." 

"You're  the  teacher  of  the  Boggs  School,  in  Teal 
Lake  Township?" 

"Oh,  yes,  suh!"  said  she.  "Pahdon  me!  I  thought 
you  inquiahed  about  something  else." 

Judge  Worthington  started  as  if  struck  by  a  dart. 

"Let  me  see  the  papers  in  the  case,"  said  he  ex- 
citedly. 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  175 

Beasley  handed  them  up,  and  the  judge  examined 
them  carefully.  Then  he  handed  them  down,  turned 
his  back  on  Miss  Frayn,  and  spoke  in  a  low  tone,  like 
one  greatly  shocked. 

"Proceed !"  said  he. 

Something  in  his  tone  or  in  the  turning  of  his  back 
seemed  to  strike  upon  the  senses  of  Miss  Frayn  as 
unpleasant  or  hostile.  The  few  questions  put  to  her 
by  the  lawyer  to  lay  the  foundation  for  some  other 
bit  of  evidence  did  not  appear  to  affect  her  at  all; 
and  when  she  took  her  seat  between  Chester  and  my 
mother,  and  was  reassured  by  their  whispered  com- 
munications, she  looked  serene,  save  when  she  noted 
the  judge's  averted  face.  Chester's  lawyer  spoke  in- 
sinuatingly of  spite,  prejudice,  and  unreasonable 
provincialism  as  being  at  the  bottom  of  the  case. 

"And,"  he  added,  "I  may  add  jealousy — jealousy, 
your  Honor,  of  the  defendant's  charms  of  person, 
which,  as  a  part  of  the  res  g ester,  are  evidence  in  this 
case,  if  your  honor  only  would  observe  them." 

The  judge  started  and  blushed,  but  still  looked 
steadily  away.  Mr.  Middlekauff  looked  relieved. 
Miss  Frayn  fretted  the  linoleum  with  little  taps  of 
her  toe,  and  her  delicate  nostrils  fluttered.  There  was 
a  mystic  tension  in  the  air. 


i ;6  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

"Mr.  Chestah,"  said  the  girl,  in  a  low  voice,  "he 
seems  to  be  alludin'  to — what  does  he  mean?" 

Judge  Worthington  rapped  for  silence.  Miss 
Frayn's  eyes  grew  bright,  and  her  cheek  showed  a 
spot  of  crimson  which  deepened  as  the  reading  of 
the  affidavit  went  on.  As  the  legal  verbiage  droned 
through  the  story  of  the  boys'  infatuation,  I  looked 
at  her,  and  knew  that  her  indignation  was  swelling 
fiercely  at  she  scarcely  knew  what.  I  began  repeating 
to  myself  a  passage  from  Seneca. 

"Objected  to,"  roared  Chester's  lawyer,  "as  in- 
competent, irrelevant,  immaterial,  impertinent,  and 
grossly  scandalous !" 

Miss  Frayn  clenched  her  hands  and  held  her 
breath  as  if  at  the  realization  of  her  worst  fears. 
Then  the  judge  spoke.  "The  affidavit,"  said  he,  "at- 
tributes to  Miss  Frayn  a  malign  and  corrupting  in- 
fluence over  the  whole  neighborhood,  and — " 

"Suh!"  she  gasped. 

Again  did  the  judge  rap  for  order. 

"Ruling  reserved,"  said  he.   "Proceed." 

Triumphantly  Beasley  went  on  with  the  resolu- 
tions. At  last  Miss  Frayn  seemed  to  understand. 
She  rose,  stilled  Beasley  with  a  gesture,  and  in 
frozen  dignity  addressed  the  court. 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  177 

"Judge  Wo'thin'ton,"  said  she,  "Ah'm  not  quite 
certain  Ah  get  the  full  meanin'  of  this,  but  Ah  feel 
that  Ah  cain't  pe'mit  it  to  go  fu'thah.  Ah  desiah  to 
say  to  you  as  a  gentleman  and  an  acquaintance,  if 
not  a  friend,  that  these  ah  things  that  can  not  be 
said  of  a  lady,  suh !" 

"The  defendant,"  said  the  judge,  after  two  or 
three  ineffectual  attempts  to  speak,  "will  be  heard 
through  her  counsel — proceed !" 

She  was  hurt  and  desperate  as  she  sat  down,  and 
in  a  cold  and  livid  fury.  With  her  eyes  level  and 
shining  like  knife-points,  she  put  off,  with  a  look 
like  a  blow,  Chester's  efforts  to  comfort  her.  She 
sat,  an  alien  in  an  inhospitable  land,  hedged  about  by 
a  wall  of  displeasure  at  some  formless  insult,  and  at 
friends  without  chivalry.  The  judge  began  stating 
his  decision,  giving  the  argument  for  the  one  side 
and  then  for  the  other,  as  judges  do. 

"The  evidence  tends  to  prove,"  said  he,  "that 
Roberta  Lee  Frayn  has  a  malign  fascination  over  her 
pupils — the  larger  boys  especially ;  that  she  has  lured 
them  into  personal  attendance  upon  her  rather  than 
to  study;  that  she  has  incited  young  men  to  duels, 
brawls,  breaches  of  the  peace,  and — " 

I  could  see  that  she  thought  the  phrase  "it  tends  to 


1 78  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

prove"  an  expression  of  his  belief  in  the  charges; 
2nd  as  he  went  on  her  face  flamed  red  once  more, 
and  then  went  white  as  snow.  She  stepped  back 
from  the  table  as  if  to  clear  for  action,  one  little 
hand  lifted,  the  other  in  the  folds  of  her  dress. 

"Suh!"  she  cried,  in  a  passion  of  indignation 
which  was  splendid  and  terrible.  "This  must  stop! 
If  mah  false  friends  lack  the  chivalry  to  protect  me 
and  mah  good  name,  Ah'll  defend  mahself ,  suh !" 

Chester  half  rose,  as  if  to  throw  himself  into  the 
hopeless  contest. 

"The  defendant  does  not  understand,"  said  the 
judge.  "The  defendant  will  resume  her  seat !  The 
evidence  tends  to  prove  that — " 

But  the  decision  was  never  finished;  for  the  girl 
drew  a  short,  small  pistol  and  aimed  at  him.  We 
were  frozen  in  horror.  Judge  Worthington  looked 
unwaveringly  into  the  muzzle. 

"Roberta!"  said  he. 

I  then  saw  a  rush  by  Captain  Winfield  to  strike 
her  arm;  the  pistol  roared  out  in  the  court-room 
like  a  cannon ;  and  as  Miss  Frayn  sank  back  into  my 
mother's  arms,  Judge  Worthington  stepped  down 
with  a  rent  across  his  shoulder,  from  which  he  with- 
drew his  fingers  stained  red.  From  under  the  table, 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  179 

where  irresistible  force  had  thrown  me,  I  saw  him 
take  her  unresisting  hand,  and  heard  him  whisper 
to  her. 

"Darling!"  said  he.  "You  don't  understand!  Let 
me  explain,  sweetheart,  and  then  if  you  want  the 
pistol  back  I'll  give  it  to  you,  loaded !" 

Then  he  stood  up  and  took  command. 

"The  bailiff,"  said  he,  "will  remove  the  defendant 
and  Mrs.  Boggs  to  my  chambers.  I  shall  investigate 
this  in  camera.  I  am  not  hurt,  gentlemen,  more  than 
a  pin's  prick,  and  am  able  to  go  on  and  take  such 
measures  as  are  necessary  to  protect  the  court.  Re- 
main here  until  I  resume  the  trial !" 

"I  tell  you,"  said  Middlekauff,  "we'll  crawl  out 
where  we  went  in.  Nobody  can  stand  ag'in  her  at 
clus  range  like  that !" 

Captain  Winfield's  face  bore  a  puzzled  and  mys- 
terious smile  as  he  emerged  from  the  chambers. 

"You  can't  subdue  these  Southerners;  Oc,"  said 
he. 

"The  verdict  of  history,"  said  I,  "is  otherwise." 

"We  just  reconstructed  and  absorbed  'em,"  said 
he.  "I  was  there,  an'  I  know.  The  judge  thinks 
we've  got  to  handle  this  Frayn  invasion  the  same 
way." 


180  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

"I  fail  to  get  your  meaning/'  said  I. 

"The  way  to  absorb  this  rebel  host/'  said  the  cap- 
tain, "is  to  marry  it.  It's  the  only  way  to  ground  her 
wire  and  demagnetize  her.  I  can't  undertake  the  job, 
for  reasons  known  to  all.  You're  sort  of  responsible 
for  her  devastatin'  course,  an'  I  think  it'll  cipher  it- 
self down  to  Oscar  Boggs  as  a  bridegroom  for  the 
good  of  Teal  Lake  Township,  and  the  welfare  of  the 
Boggs  School." 

My  emotions  were  tumultuous.  No  such  marriage 
could  be  forced  on  me,  of  course;  but  duty,  duty! 
Marriage  had  been  to  me  an  asset  to  be  used  in  my 
career,  some  time  after  my  doctor's  degree,  like  cast- 
ing in  chess.  I  thought  of  Miss  Frayn's  untamable 
nature ;  and  then  of  her  sweetly  tender  way  with  the 
little  ones,  how  they  clambered  over  her  while  she 
called  them  "honey." 

"On  the  main  point,"  said  the  captain,  "the  court 
had  its  mind  made  up  when  I  came  out.  This  marry- 
in'  has  got  to  be  did.  Who's  to  do  it  is  what  they're 
figgerin'  on!" 

"Captain  Winfield,"  said  I,  "if  the  public  interests 
require  it,  if  my  constituents  demand  it,  I  will  make 
the  sacrifice!  Doctor  Johnson  said  that  marriages 
might  well  be  arranged  by  the  Lord  Chancellor,  and 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  181 

Judge  Worthington  is  now  sitting  in  chancery.  I 
will  marry  the  defendant,  pro  bono  publico!" 

"Oc,"  said  the  captain,  in  a  properly  serious  man- 
ner, though  some  tittered,  "you're  a  livin'  marvel! 
I'll  go  back  and  report." 

Almost  immediately,  as  my  heart-beats  stifled  me, 
they  emerged  from  the  chambers.  My  mother  was  in 
tears.  Worthington  bore  Miss  Frayn  on  his  arm,  and 
both  looked  exaltedly  happy.  Roberta,  as  I  called 
her  in  my  thoughts,  shrank  back  bashfully,  more 
beautiful  than  I  had  ever  seen  her.  It  was  a  great, 
a  momentous  hour  for  me.  I  felt  that  I  had  settled 
the  case. 

"I  shall  ask  the  plaintiff,"  said  the  judge,  "to  dis- 
miss this  case !" 

"On  what  grounds?"  interrogated  Beasley  sharply. 

"Don't  tell,  Forceythe!"  said  Roberta,  hiding  her 
face  on  the  judge's  arm  as  I  approached. 

"Because  the  defendant,"  the  judge  replied  to 
Beasley,  "has  resigned.  She  is  about  to  be  married !" 

"Didn't  I  tell  you,  Oc,"  said  Winfield,  slapping 
me  on  the  back — which  in  the  delightful  embarrass- 
ment of  the  occasion  I  did  not  resent — "that  it  was 
up  to  you?" 

A  boy  in  the  audience — I  think  it  was  William 


182  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

Middlekauff — caught  the  judge's  statement,  and  un- 
grammatically shouted :  "Who  to  ?" 

"The  lucky  man?"  shouted  the  crowd.  "Name 
him!" 

As  it  seemed  proper  for  me  to  do  under  the  cir- 
cumstances, I  went  forward  to  take  Roberta's  hand 
in  anticipation  of  the  announcement.  Then  all  went 
dark  before  my  eyes. 

"I  am  happy,"  said  Judge  Worthington,  "happy 
and  inexpressibly  honored  to  say  that  the  defendant 
is  to  be  married  to  me !" 

The  Hired  Man  was  asleep  as  the  Professor  con- 
cluded his  tale,  and  some  of  the  rest  were  nodding. 
They  rose  to  retire. 

"I  suppose,"  said  the  Groom,  "that  the  only  safe 
way  is  to  let  them  entirely  alone,  Professor?" 

The  Professor,  embarrassed  by  the  presence  of  the 
Bride,  could  only  bow. 

"Gad!"  said  Colonel  Baggs,  taking  his  hand. 
"Your  case  goes  into  the  hard-luck  file  with  that  of 
the  Nez  Perc&  victim,  Mr.  Cowan  of  Radersburg." 


CHAPTER  VII 

this  lake/'  declaimed  the  Colonel,  "farther 
from  tide  water  than  any  other  like  body  of 
water  on  this  earth,  could  float  our  entire  navy." 

"Safest  place  in  the  world  for  it,  too,"  declared 
the  Groom. 

"I  know  some  awfully  nice  navy  men,"  protested 
the  Bride ;  "so  don't  be  cattish  about  the  navy." 

They  had  spent  many  hours  on  Yellowstone 
Lake,  and  days  in  its  vicinity.  Paint  pots,  geysersr 
and  iridescent  springs  were  no  longer  recorded  in 
the  log-book;  but  when,  at  the  Fishing  Cone,  the 
Hired  Man  came  into  camp  asking  for  salt,  with  a 
cooked  trout  on  his  line,  and  the  Bride  learned  that 
he  had  hooked  the  fish  in  cold  water,  and  cooked  it 
in  hot  without  moving  from  the  spot,  wonder  at  the 
marvel  was  swallowed  up  in  protest  on  the  Bride's 
part,  against  such  an  atrocity. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Snoke,  Mr.  Snoke!"  said  she,  almost 
tearful.  "How  could  you!  How  could  you!  How 

183 


184  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

would  you  like  to  have  a  thing  like  that  done  to  you 
— cooked  alive.  Oh!" 

''Well/'  said  Mr.  Snoke.  "If  you  put  it  that  way, 
I  wouldn't  be  very  strong  for  bein'  hooked,  let  alone 
cooked.  After  I'd  been  snaked  out  of  the  drink,  I 
wouldn't  care,  Bride." 

"Well,  I  move  we  don't  cook  any  more  of  'em 
until  they  have  gasped  out  their  lives  slowly  and  in 
the  ordinary  mode,"  said  the  Artist 

"Shore,"  said  Aconite,  "no  more  automobiles  de 
fe  for  the  trout — hear  that,  Bill?  An'  speakin'  of 
cookin'  fish  that-a-way,"  he  went  on,  creating  a  con- 
versational diversion.  "Old  Jim  Bridger  found  a 
place  out  here  som'eres,  where  the  water  was  shore 
deep.  At  the  bottom  it  was  cold,  and  on  the  top  hot 
— hot  as  it  is  in  the  Fish  Cone  over  yon.  He  used 
to  hook  trout  down  in  the  cold  water,  and  they'd 
cook  to  a  turn  while  he  was  bringin'  'em  to  the  sur- 
face an'  playin'  'em." 

"That  sounds  to  me  all  right,"  assented  the 
Colonel. 

"The  hot  water,"  observed  the  Professor,  "would 
naturally  be  at  the  surface;  but  as  for  the  tale  it- 
self—" 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  185 

"It  would,  eh?"  queried  Aconite.  "Well,  I've 
forded  the  Firehole  where  the  bottom  was  hot,  an' 
the  top  cold.  An'  Old  Jim  Bridger  knowed  of  a 
place  where  the  water  of  a  cold  spring  starts  at  the 
top  of  a  mountain,  and  slides  down  so  fast  that 
the  friction  heats  the  water  hot — just  rubbin'  on  the 
rocks  comin'  down.  It's  here  in  these  hills  som'eres, 
yet!" 

The  Artist,  the  Groom  and  the  Colonel  fished  in- 
dustriously for  one  day  and  then  handed  in  a  unani- 
mous verdict  that  it  was  a  shame  to  take  advantage 
of  the  trout's  verdancy.  So  the  Hired  Man  and 
Aconite  foraged  for  the  frying-pan. 

The  change  to  boat  from  land  carriage  was  so 
grateful,  now,  that  they  made  wondrous  voyages, 
first  to  the  scenes  reached  by  water.  They  photo- 
graphed bears  near  camp  and  both  deer  and  elk  in 
the  meadows  and  on  their  shore  feeding-grounds. 
It  was  no  longer  a  strange  or  startling  thing  to  see 
a  grizzly  bear,  and  to  stalk  him  with  a  kodak.  The 
pelicans  on  the  lake  were  to  them  as  the  swans  on 
a  private  pond.  The  sense  of  ownership  grew  upon 
them.  Here  was  their  own  pleasure-ground.  It  was 
theirs  by  virtue  of  their  citizenship.  They  might  not 


1 86  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

visit  it  often — though  all  declared  their  intention  of 
coming  back  every  summer — but,  anyhow,  it  would 
be  fine  to  know  that  here  on  the  summit  of  the  con- 
tinent was  this  wonderland,  owned  by  them  and  each 
of  them. 

They  took  saddle  horses  down  the  southern  ap- 
proach to  Heart  Lake,  and  voted  it  the  loveliest  lake 
in  the  park. 

"That  is/'  said  the  Bride,  "it  doesn't  compare  with 
the  big  lake  up  yonder  in  greatness;  but  it's  just 
pure  joy.  Let's  camp  here  for  the  night.  Let's  draw 
another  romance  from  the  library  right  now;  and 
give  the  victim  time  to  compose  his  thoughts  while 
we  go  see  that  Rustic  Geyser,  with  the  stone  logs 
around  it." 

Somehow  they  seemed  farther  from  the  haunts 
of  men  here  than  anywhere  else  in  the  Park.  The 
stream  of  tourists  seemed  to  sweep  on  past  the 
Thumb  Lunch  Station,  toward  the  Lake  Hotel ;  and 
Heart  Lake,  with  Mount  Sheridan  brooding  over  it, 
was  theirs  alone.  And  it  was  here  that  the  Hired 
Man,  with  many  protests  that  he  wasn't  really  a 
member  of  the  party,  but  only  working  his  way,  told 
his  story — like  another  Ulysses  returned  from  Troy 
and  his  wanderings. 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  187 

FROM  ALPHA  TO  OMEGA 

THE    HIRED    MAN'S    STORY 

It  narrows  a  man  to  stick  around  in  one  place. 
You  broaden  out  more  pan-handling  over  one  divi- 
sion, than  by  watching  the  cars  go  by  for  years. 
I've  been  everywhere  from  Alpha,  Illinois,  to  Omega, 
Oklahoma,  and  peeked  over  most  of  the  jumping-off 
places;  and  Iowa  is  not  the  whole  works  at  all. 
That's  why  I'm  here  now.  Good  quiet  state  to  moss 
over  in;  but  no  life!  Me  for  the  mountains  where 
the  stealing  is  good  yet,  and  a  man  with  genius  can 
be  a  millionaire ! 

I  was  in  one  big  deal,  once — the  Golden  Fountain 
Mine.  Pete  Peterson  and  I  worked  in  the  Golden 
Fountain  and  boarded  with  Brady,  a  pit  boss.  Ever 
hear  of  psychic  power?  A  medium  told  me  once 
that  I  have  it,  and  that's  why  folks  tell  me  their  se- 
crets. The  second  day  Brady  told  me  the  mine  was 
being  wrecked. 

"How  do  you  know?"  said  I. 

"They're  minin'  bird's-eye  porphyry,"  said  Brady, 
"purtendin'  they've  lost  the  lode." 

"Maybe  they  have,"  said  I. 


i88  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

"Not  them/'  replied  Brady,  who  never  had  had 
any  culture.  "I  can  show  you  the  vein  broad's  a  road 
an'  rich  as  pudd'n' !" 

I  didn't  care  a  whoop,  as  long  as  they  paid  regu- 
lar; but  Brady  worried  about  the  widows  and  or- 
phans that  had  stock.  I  said  I  had  no  widows  and 
orphans  contracting  insonomia  for  me,  and  he  ad- 
mitted he  hadn't.  But  he  said  a  man  couldn't  tell 
what  he  might  acquire.  Soon  after,  a  load  of  stulls 
broke  loose,  knocked  Pete  Peterson  numb,  and  in 
the  crash  Brady  accumulated  a  widow.  It  was 
thought  quite  odd,  after  what  he'd  said. 

The  union  gave  him  a  funeral,  and  then  we  were 
all  rounded  up  by  a  lawyer  that  insisted  on  being 
a  pall-bearer  and  riding  with  the  mourners,  he  and 
Brady  had  been  such  dear  friends.  The  widow  never 
heard  of  him;  but  unless  he  was  dear  to  Brady,  why 
did  he  cry  over  the  bier,  and  pass  out  his  cards,  and 
say  he'd  make  the  mine  sweat  for  this?  It  didn't 
seem  reasonable,  and  the  widow  signed  papers  while 
he  held  in  his  grief. 

Then  we  found  he  had  awful  bad  luck  losing 
friends.  A  lot  of  them  had  been  killed  or  hurt,  and 
he  was  suing  companies  to  beat  fours.  We  were 
going  over  our  evidence,  and  another  bunch  was 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  189 

there  with  a  doctor  examining  to  see  how  badly  they 
were  ruined. 

"Beautiful  injury!"  said  the  lawyer,  thumping  a 
husky  Hun  on  the  leg.  "No  patellar  reflex!  Spine 
ruined!  Beautiful!  We'll  make 'em  sweat  for  this!" 

He  surely  was  a  specialist  in  corporate  perspira- 
tion. I  asked  what  the  patellar  reflex  was,  and  the 
doc  had  Pete  sit  and  cross  his  legs,  and  explained. 

"Mr.  Peterson,"  said  he,  "has  a  normal  spine. 
When  I  concuss  the  limb  here,  the  foot  will  kick 
forward  involuntarily.  But  in  case  of  spinal  injury, 
it  will  not.  Now  observe !" 

He  whacked  Pete's  shin  with  a  rubber  hammer, 
but  Pete  never  kicked.  His  foot  hung  loose  like,  not 
doing  a  blamed  thing  that  the  doc  said  it  would  if 
his  spine  was  in  repair.  The  doc  was  plumb  dumb- 
foundered. 

"Most  remarkable  case  of  volitional  control — " 
he  began. 

"Volitional  your  grandmother!"  yells  the  lawyer. 
"Mr.  Peterson  is  ruined  also !  He  was  stricken  prone 
in  the  same  negligent  accident  that  killed  dear  Mr. 
Brady!  He  is  doomed!  A  few  months  of  progres- 
sive induration  of  the  spinal  cord,  and  breaking  up 
of  the  multipolar  cells,  and — death,  friend,  death!" 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

The  widow  begun  to  whimper,  and  the  lawyer 
grabbed  Pete's  hand  and  bursted  into  tears.  Pete, 
being  a  Swede,  never  opened  his  face. 

"But,"  said  the  lawyer,  cheering  up,  "we'll  make 
them  sweat  for  this.  Shall  we  not  vindicate  the  right 
of  the  working-man  to  protection,  Mr.  Peterson?" 

"Yu  bat !"  said  Pete.  "Ay  bane  gude  Republican !" 

"And  vindicate  his  right,"  went  on  the  lawyer,  "to 
safe  tools  and  conditions  of  employment?" 

"Ay  tank  we  windicate,"  said  Pete. 

"Nobly  said!"  said  the  lawyer  and  hopped  to  it 
making  agreements  for  contingent  fees  and  other 
flimflams.  It  was  wonderful  how  sort  of  patriotic 
and  unselfish  and  religious  and  cagey  he  always  was. 

We  quit  the  Golden  Fountain,  and  I  got  some  as- 
sessment work  for  Sile  Wilson.  Pete  wouldn't  go. 
He  was  sort  of  hanging  around  the  widow,  but  his 
brains  were  so  sluggish  that  I  don't  believe  he  knew 
why.  I  picked  up  a  man  named  Lungy  to  help.  Sile's 
daughter  Lucy  kept  house  for  Sile  in  camp,  and  in 
two  days  she  was  calling  Lungy  "Mr.  Addison,"  and 
reproaching  me  for  stringing  a  stranger  that  had 
seen  better  days  and  had  a  bum  lung  and  was  used 
to  dressing  for  dinner.  I  told  her  I  most  always 
allowed  to  wear  something  at  that  meal  myself,  and 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  191 

she  snapped  my  head  off.  He  was  a  nice  fellow  for 
a  lunger. 

When  I  had  to  go  and  testify  in  the  Brady  and 
Peterson  cases  against  the  Golden  Fountain,  old 
Sile  was  willing. 

"I'd  like  to  help  stick  the  thieves !"  he  hissed. 

"How  did  you  know  they  were  thieves?"  asked  I. 

"I  located  the  claim,"  said  he,  "and  they  stole  it 
on  a  measley  little  balance  for  machinery — confound 
them!" 

"Well,  they're  stealing  it  again,"  said  I;  and  I 
explained  the  lost  vein  business. 

"They've  pounded  the  stock  away  down/'  said  the 
lunger.  "I  believe  it's  a  good  buy !" 

"Draw  your  eighteen-seventy-five  from  Sile,"  said 
I;  "and  come  with  me  and  buy  it!" 

"I  think  I  will  go,"  said  he.  And  he  did.  He  was 
a  nice  fellow  to  travel  with. 

Well,  the  Golden  Fountain  was  shut  down,  and 
had  no  lawyer  against  us.  It  was  a  funny  hook-up. 
We  proved  about  the  stulls,  and  got  a  judgment  for 
the  widow  for  ten  thousand.  Then  we  corralled  an- 
other jury  and  showed  that  Pete  had  no  patellar 
reflex,  and  therefore  no  spine,  and  got  a  shameful 
great  verdict  for  him.  And  all  the  time  the  Golden 


192  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

Fountain  never  peeped,  and  Lungy  Addison  looked 
on  speechless.  Our  lawyer  was  numb,  it  was  so  easy. 

"I  don't  understand — "  said  he. 

'The  law  department  must  be  connected  in  series 
with  the  mine  machinery,"  said  I,  "and  shuts  off 
with  the  same  switch.  Do  we  get  this  on  a  foul?" 

"Oh,  nothing  foul!"  said  he.  "Default,  you 
see—" 

"No  showup  at  ringside,"  said  I;  "9  to  o?  How 
about  bets?" 

"Everything  is  all  right,"  said  he,  looking  as  wor- 
ried. "We'll  sell  the  mine,  and  make  the  judg- 
ments!" 

"And  get  the  Golden  Fountain,"  said  I,  "on  an 
Irish  pit  boss  and  a  Swede's  spine  ?" 

"Certainly,"  said  he,  "if  they  don't  redeem." 

"Show  me,"  said  I ;  "I'm  from  Missouri !  It's  too 
easy  to  be  square.  She  won't  pan !" 

"Dat  bane  hellufa  pile  money  f'r  vidder,"  said 
Pete  when  we  were  alone.  "Ten  thousan'  f'r  Brady, 
an'  twelf  f'r  spine!  Ay  git  yob  vork  f'r  her  in 
mine!" 

"You  wild  Skandihoovian,"  said  I,  "that's  your 
spine!" 

"Mae  spine  ?"  he  grinned.  "Ay  gass  not !  Dat  leg- 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  193 

yerkin'  bane  only  effidence.  Dat  spine  bane  vid- 
der's!" 

I  couldn't  make  him  see  that  it  was  his  personal 
spine,  and  the  locomotor  must  be  attaxing.  He 
smiled  his  fool  smile  and  brought  things  to  comfort 
Mrs.  Brady's  last  days.  But  she  knew,  and  took  him 
to  Father  Mangan,  and  Pete  commenced  studying 
the  catechism  against  the  time  of  death ;  but  it  didn't 
take.  The  circuit  between  the  Swedenwegian  intel- 
lect and  the  Irish  plan  of  salvation  looks  like  it's 
grounded  and  don't  do  business. 

"Very  well  said/'  commented  the  Groom.  "I 
couldn't  have  put  it  more  engenerically  myself." 

One  night  the  lawyer  asked  me  to  tell  "-the  Peter- 
sons," as  he  called  them,  that  some  New  Yorker  had 
stuck  an  intervention  or  mandamus  into  the  cylinder 
and  stopped  the  court's  selling  machinery.  "We  may 
be  delayed  a  year  or  so,"  said  he.  Pete  had  gone  to 
the  widow's  with  a  patent  washboard  that  was  easy 
on  the  spine,  and  I  singlefooted  up,  too.  And  there 
was  that  yellow-mustached  Norsky  holding  the 
widow  on  his  lap,  bridging  the  chasm  between  races 
in  great  shape.  He  flinched  some,  and  his  neck  got 
redder,  but  she  fielded  her  position  in  big  league 
form,  and  held  her  base. 


194  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

"Bern'  as  the  poor  man  is  not  long  f  'r  this  wicked 
world/'  said  she,  "an'  such  a  thrue  man,  swearin'  as 
the  1'yer  wanted,  I  thought  whoile  the  crather  stays 
wid  us — " 

"Sure,"  said  I.  "Congrats!  When's  the  merger?" 

"Hey?"  says  Pete. 

"The  nuptials,"  said  I.  "The  broom-stick  jump- 
ing." 

The  widow  got  up  and  explained  that  the  espou- 
sals were  hung  up  till  Pete  could  pass  his  exams  with 
Father  Mangan. 

"Marriage,"  said  she,  "is  a  sacrilege,  and  not 
lightly  recurred.  Oh,  the  thrials  of  a  young  widdy, 
what  wid  Swedes,  and  her  sowl,  an'  the  childer  that 
may  be — Gwan  wid  ye's,  ye  divvle  ye!" 

Now  there  was  a  plot  for  a  painter:  the  widow 
thinking  Pete  on  the  blink  spinally,  and  he  soothing 
her  last  days,  all  on  account  of  a  patellar  reflex  that 
an  ambulance  chaser  took  advantage  of — and  the 
courts  full  of  quo- warrantees  and  things  to  keep  the 
Jackleg  from  selling  a  listed  mine,  with  hoisting- 
works  and  chlorination-tanks ! 

I  got  this  letter  from  Pete,  or  the  widow,  I  don't 
know  which  [displaying  a  worn  piece  of  paper], 
about  the  third  year  after  that.  Here's  what  it  says : 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  195 

"Ve  haf  yust  hat  hell  bad  time,  savin'  yer  prisence, 
and  Ay  skal  skip  for  tjiens  of  climit  to  gude  pless 
Ay  gnow  in  Bad  Lands.  Lawyer  f aller  sell  mine  f er 
10  tousan  to  vidder,  an  thin,  bad  cess  to  him,  sells  it 
agin  to  Pete  fer  12000$  an  git  2  stifkit  off  sheriff 
an  say  hae  keep  dem  fer  fees,  an  Ay  gnok  him  in 
fess  an  take  stifkit  Hae  say  hae  tell  mae  spine 
bane  O  K  all  tern,  an  thrittened  to  jug  Pete,  an  the 
back  of  me  hand  and  the  sole  of  me  fut  to  the  likes 
of  him,  savin'  yer  prisence,  an  Fader  Mangan  call  me 
big  towhead  chump  an  kant  lern  catty  kismus  an 
marry  me  to  vidder,  an  Pete,  God  bliss  him,  prom- 
ised to  raise  the  family  in  Holy  Church,  but  no  f  al- 
ler gnow  dem  tings  Bfour  hand,  an  Ay  tank  ve  hike 
to  dam  gude  pless  in  Bad  Lands  vun  yare  till  stifkit 
bane  ripe  an  Mine  belong  vidder  an  Ay  bane  Yen- 
eral  Manager  an  yu  pit  Boss  vit  gude  yob  in  Yune 
or  Yuly  next,  yours  truely,  an  may  the  Blessid  Saints 
purtect  ye,  PETER  PETERSON. 

"P.  S.  Vidder  Brady  mae  vife  git  skar  an  sine 
stifkit  fer  Brady  to  lawyer  f  aller  like  dam  fool 
vooman  trik  an  sattle  vit  him,  but  Ay  tink  dat  leg- 
yerkin  bane  bad  all  sem  an  yump  to  Bad  Lands  if  we 
dodge  inyunction  youre  frend.  PETE." 

"So  they  got  married,"  said  Aconite. 

Just  the  way  I  figured  it. 

Well,  this  lunger  sleuthed  me  out  when  I  was 
prospecting  alone  next  summer. 

"Hello,  Bill,"  said  he,  abrupt-like.  "Cook  a  dou- 
ble supply  of  bacon." 


196  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

"Sure,"  I  said.   "Got  any  eating  tobacco,  Lungy  ?" 

"Bill/'  said  he,  after  we  had  fed  our  respective 
faces,  "did  you  ever  wonder  why  that  Swede  re- 
ceived such  prompt  recognition  without  controversy 
for  his  absent  patellar  reflex  ?" 

"Never  wonder  about  anything  else,"  said  I. 
"Why?" 

"It  was  this  way,"  said  he.  "The  crowd  that 
robbed  Sile  Wilson  found  they  had  sold  too  much 
stock,  and  quit  mining  ore  to  run  it  down  so  they 
could  buy  it  back.  Some  big  holders  hung  on,  and 
they  had  to  make  the  play  strong.  So  they  went 
broke  for  fair,  and  let  Brady's  widow  and  Pete  and 
a  lot  of  others  get  judgments,  and  they  bought  up 
the  certificates  of  sale.  D'ye  see?" 

"Kind  of,"  said  I.  "It'll  come  to  me  all  right." 

"It  was  a  stock  market  harvest  of  death,"  said 
Lungy.  "The  judgments  were  to  wipe  out  all  the 
stock.  This  convinces  me  that  the  vein  is  hidden  and 
not  lost,  as  you  said." 

"I  thought  I  mentioned  the  fact,"  said  I,  "that 
Brady  showed  me  the  ore-chute." 

"That's  why  I'm  here,"  said  he.  "I  want  you  to 
find  Pete  Peterson  for  me." 

"Why?"  I  said. 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  197 

"Because/'  answered  Addison,  "he's  got  the  ju- 
nior certificate/' 

"Give  me  the  grips  and  passwords,"  I  demanded; 
"the  secret  work  of  the  order  may  clear  it  up." 

"Listen,"  said  he.  "Each  certificate  calls  for  a 
deed  to  the  mine  the  day  it's  a  year  old;  but  the 
younger  can  redeem  from  the  older  by  paying  them 
off — the  second  from  the  first,  the  third  from  the 
second,  and  so  on." 

"Kind  of  rotation  pool,"  said  I,  "with  Pete's  claim 
as  ball  fifteen?" 

"Yes,"  said  he;  "only  the  mine  itself  has  the  last 
chance.  But  they  think  they  know  that  Pete  won't 
turn  up,  and  they  gamble  on  stealing  the  mine  with 
the  Brady  certificate.  Your  perspicacity  enables  you 
to  estimate  the  importance  of  Mr.  Peterson." 

"My  perspicacity,"  I  said,  giving  it  back  to  him 
cold,  "informs  me  that  some  jackleg  lawyer  has  been 
and  bunked  Pete  out  of  the  paper  long  since.  And 
he  couldn't  pay  off  what's  ahead  of  him  any  more'n 
he  could  buy  the  Homestake?  Come,  there's  more 
than  this  to  the  initiation !" 

"Yes,  there  is,"  he  admitted.  "You  remember 
Lucy,  of  course?  No  one  could  forget  her!  Well, 
her  father  and  I  are  in  on  a  secret  pool  of  his 


198  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

friends,  they  to  find  the  money,  we  to  get  this  cer- 
tificate." 

"Where  does  Lucy  come  in?"  said  I. 

"I  get  her,"  he  replied,  coloring  up.  "And  success 
makes  us  all  rich !" 

I  never  said  a  word.  Lungy  was  leery  that  I  was 
soft  on  Lucy — I  might  have  been,  easy  enough — and 
sat  looking  at  me  for  a  straight  hour. 

"Can  you  find  him  for  me  ?"  said  he,  at  last. 

"Sure!"  said  I. 

He  smoked  another  pipeful  and  knocked  out  the 
ashes. 

"Will  you?"  said  he,  kind  of  wishful. 

"If  you  insult  me  again,"  I  hissed,  "I'll  knock  that 
other  lung  out !  Turn  in,  you  fool,  and  be  ready  for 
the  saddle  at  sun-up !" 

We  rode  two  days  in  the  country  that  looks  like 
the  men  had  gone  out  when  they  had  the  construc- 
tion work  on  it  half  done,  when  a  couple  of  horse- 
men came  out  of  a  draw  into  the  canon  ahead  of  us. 

"The  one  on  the  pinto,"  said  I,  "is  the  perspira- 
tion specialist." 

"If  he  doesn't  recognize  you,"  said  Lungy,  "let 
the  dead  past  stay  dead!" 

Out  there  in  the  sunshine  the  Jackleg  looked  the 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  199 

part,  so  I  wondered  how  we  come  to  be  faked  by  him. 
We  could  see  that  the  other  fellow  was  a  sheriff,  a 
deputy-sheriff,  or  a  candidate  for  sheriff — it  was  in 
his  features. 

"Howdy,  fellows!"  said  I. 

"Howdy!"  said  the  sheriff,  and  closed  his  face. 

"Odd  place  to  meet!"  gushed  the  Jackleg,  as  smily 
as  ever.  "Which  way?" 

"We  allowed  to  go  right  on,"  I  said. 

"This  is  our  route,"  said  Jackleg,  and  moseys  up 
the  opposite  draw,  clucking  to  his  bronk,  like  an  old 
woman. 

"What  do  you  make  of  his  being  here?"  asked 
Lungy. 

"Hunting  Swedes,"  I  said.  "And  with  a  case 
against  Pete  for  robbery  and  assault.  I  hope  we  see 
him  first!" 

We  went  on,  Lungy  ignorantly  cheerful,  I  lost- 
like  to  know  what  was  what,  and  feeling  around  with 
my  mind's  finger  for  the  trigger  of  the  situation. 
Suddenly  I  whoaed  up,  shifted  around  on  my  hip, 
and  looked  back. 

"Lost  anything,  Bill?"  asked  Lungy. 

"Temporarily  mislaid  my  brains,"  said  I.  "We're 
going  back  and  pick  up  the  scent  of  the  Jackleg." 


200  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

Lungy  looked  up  inquiringly,  as  we  doubled  back 
on  our  tracks. 

"When  you  kick  a  covey  of  men  out  of  this  sage- 
brush," I  explained,  "they  naturally  ask  about  any- 
thing they're  after.  They  inquire  if  you  know  a 
Cock-Robin  married  to  a  Jenny- Wren,  or  an  Owl 
to  a  Pussycat,  or  whatever  marital  misdeal  they're 
trailing.  They  don't  mog  on  like  it  was  Kansas  City 
or  Denver." 

"Both  parties  kept  still,"  replied  Lungy.  "What's 
the  answer,  Bill?" 

"Both  got  the  same  guilty  secret,"  said  I,  "and 
they've  got  it  the  worst.  They  know  where  Pete  is. 
So  will  we  if  we  follow  their  spoor." 

We  pelted  on  right  brisk  after  them.  The  draw 
got  to  be  a  canon,  with  grassy,  sheep-nibbled  bot- 
tom, and  we  knew  we  were  close  to  somewhere.  At 
last,  rolling  to  us  around  a  bend,  came  a  tide  of  re- 
marks, rising  and  swelling  to  the  point  of  rough- 
house  and  riot. 

"The  widow!"  said  I.  "She  knows  me.  You  go 
in,  Lungy,  and  put  up  a  stall  to  keep  'em  from  seeing 
Pete  alone  first !" 

I  crept  up  close.  The  widow  was  calling  the 
Jackleg  everything  that  a  perfect  lady  as  she  was, 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  201 

you  know,  could  lay  her  tongue  to,  and  he  trying  to 
blast  a  crack  in  the  oratory  to  slip  a  word  into. 

"I  dislike/'  said  Lungy,  "to  disturb  privacy;  but 
we  want  your  man  to  show  us  the  way." 

"Who  the  devil  are  you?"  said  the  sheriff. 

"My  name — "  began  Lungy. 

"Whativer  it  is,  sorr,"  said  the  widow,  "it's  a  bet- 
ther  name  nor  his  you  shpake  to — the  black  far- 
down,  afther  taking  me  man  and  lavin'  me  shtarve 
wid  me  babbies  he  robbed  iv  what  the  coort  give! 
But  as  long  as  I've  a  tongue  in  me  hid  to  hould,  ye'll 
not  know  where  he's  hid !" 

And  just  then  down  behind  me  comes  Pete  on  a 
fair-sized  cayuse  branded  with  a  double  X. 

"Dat  bane  you,  Bill?"  said  he  casual-like.  "You 
most  skar  me !" 

I  flagged  him  back  a  piece  and  told  him  the  Jack- 
leg  was  there.  He  ran,  and  I  had  to  rope  him. 

"You're  nervous,  Pete,"  said  I,  helping  him  up. 
"What's  the  matter?" 

"Dis  blame  getaway  biz,"  he  said,  "bane  purty 
tough  on  f allar.  Ay  listen  an'  yump  all  tern  nights !" 

"How  about  going  back  for  the  mine?"  I  asked. 

"Dat  bane  gude  yoke !"  he  grinned.  "Ay  got  gude 
flock  an'  planty  range  hare,  an'  Ay  stay,  Ay  tank. 


202  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

Yu  kill  lawyer  fallar,  Bill,  an'  take  half  whole  shoot- 
ing-match !" 

"Got  that  certificate?"  I  asked. 

It  was  all  worn  raw  at  the  folds,  but  he  had  it. 
The  Jackleg  had  an  assignment  all  ready  on  the 
back,  and  I  wrote  Addison's  name  in,  and  made  Pete 
sign  it. 

"Now,"  said  I.  "We'll  take  care  of  Mr.  Jackleg, 
and  you'll  get  something  for  this,  but  I  don't  know 
what.  Don't  ever  come  belly-aching  around  saying 
we've  bunked  you  after  Lungy  has  put  up  his  good 
money  and  copped  the  mine.  These  men  want  this 
paper,  not  you.  Probably  they've  got  no  warrant. 
Brace  up  and  stand  pat!" 

So  we  walked  around  bold  as  brass.  The  widow 
was  dangling  a  Skandy-looking  kid  over  her  shoul- 
der by  one  foot,  and  analyzing  the  parentage  of  Jack- 
leg.  Lungy  was  grinning,  but  the  sheriff's  face  was 
shut  down. 

"Ah,  Mr.  Peterson!"  said  the  lawyer.  "And  our 
old  and  dear  friend  William  Snoke,  too!  I  thought 
I  recognized  you  this  morning!  And  now,  please 
excuse  our  old  and  dear  friend  Mr.  Peterson  for  a 
moment's  consultation." 

"Dis  bane  gude  pless,"  said  Pete.   "Crack  ahead !" 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  203 

"This  is  a  private  matter,  gentlemen/'  said 
Jackleg. 

"Shall  we  withdraw?"  asks  Lungy. 

"No!"  yells  Pete.   "You  stay— be  vitness!" 

"I  wish  to  remind  you,  dear  Mr.  Peterson,"  said 
he  as  we  sort  of  settled  in  our  places,  "that  your 
criminal  assault  and  robbery  of  me  has  subjected 
you  to  a  long  term  in  prison.  And  I  suffered  great 
damage  by  interruption  of  business,  and  bodily  and 
mental  anguish  from  the  wounds,  contusions  and 
lesions  inflicted,  and  especially  from  the  compound 
fracture  of  the  inferior  maxillary  bone — " 

"Dat  bane  lie !"  said  Pete.  "Ay  yust  broke  your 
yaw!" 

"He  admits  the  corpus  delicti!"  yelled  the  lawyer. 
"Gentlemen,  bear  witness!" 

"I  didn't  hear  any  such  thing,"  said  Lungy. 

"Neither  did  I,"  I  said. 

"I  figure  my  damages,"  he  went  on,  "at  twelve 
thousand  dollars." 

Pete  picked  a  thorn  out  of  his  finger. 

"Now,  Mr.  Peterson,"  went  on  the  lawyer,  "I 
don't  suppose  you  have  the  cash.  But  when  I  have 
stood  up  and  fought  for  a  man  for  pure  friendship 
and  a  mere  contingent  fee,  I  learn  to  love  him.  I 


204  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

would  fain  save  you  from  prison,  if  you  would  so 
act  as  to  enable  me  to  acquit  you  of  felonious  intent. 
A  prison  is  a  fearful  place,  Mr.  Peterson!" 

"Ay  tank,"  said  Pete,  "Ay  brace  up  an'  stand 
pat!" 

"If  you  would  do  anything,"  pleaded  the  Jackleg, 
"to  show  good  intention,  turn  over  to  me  any  pa- 
pers you  may  have,  no  matter  how  worthless — notes, 
or — or  certificates !" 

Pete  pulled  out  his  wallet.  Lungy  turned  pale. 

"Take  dis,"  said  Pete.  "Dis  bane  order  fer  six 
dollar  Yohn  Yohnson's  wages.  Ay  bane  gude 
fallar!" 

"Thanks!"  said  the  Jackleg,  pious-like.  "And  is 
that  long  document  the  certificate  of  sale  in  Peterson 
vs.  Golden  Fountain,  etc.  ?" 

"Dat  bane  marryin'  papers,"  said  Pete.  "Dat 
spine  paper  bane  N.  G.  Mae  spine  all  tern  O.  K. 
Dat  leg-yerkin'  bane  yust  effidence.  Ay  take  spine 
paper  to  start  camp-fire!" 

It  was  as  good  as  a  play.  Lungy  turned  pale  and 
trembled.  The  lawyer  went  up  in  the  air  and  told 
the  sheriff  to  arrest  Pete,  and  appealed  to  the  widow 
to  give  up  the  certificate,  and  she  got  sore  at  Pete, 
and  called  him  a  Norwegian  fool  for  burning  it,  and 
cuffed  the  bigger  kid,  which  was  more  Irish-looking. 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  205 

Pete  dug  his  toe  into  the  ground  and  looked 
ashamed  and  mumbled  something  about  it  not  being 
his  spine.  The  sheriff  told  Pete  to  come  along,  and 
I  asked  him  to  show  his  warrant.  He  made  a  bluff 
at  looking  in  his  clothes  for  it,  and  rode  away  with 
his  countenance  tight-closed. 

Lungy  and  I  rode  off  the  other  way. 

That  night  Lungy  smiled  weakly  as  I  started  the 
fire  with  paper. 

"Bill/'  said  he,  "I  shall  never  burn  paper  without 
thinking  how  near  I  came  to  paradise  and  dropped 
plump — " 

"Oh,  I  forgot,"  said  I.    "Here's  that  certificate." 

Lungy  took  it,  looked  it  over,  read  the  assign- 
ment, and  broke  down  and  cried. 

"How  did  it  come  out  ?"  asked  the  Bride. 

"Oh,"  said  the  Hired  Man,  "Lungy  waited  till  the 
last  minute,  flashed  the  paper  and  the  money,  and 
swiped  the  mine.  The  company  wanted  to  give  a 
check  and  redeem,  but  the  clerk  stood  out  for  cur- 
rency, and  it  was  too  late  to  get  it.  He  got  the  mine, 
and  Lucy,  and  is  the  big  Mr.  Addison,  now.  No, 
me  for  where  you  can  carry  off  things  that  are  too 
big  for  the  grand  larceny  statutes.  This  business  of 
fanning  is  too  much  like  chicken- feed  for  me!" 


CHAPTER  VIII 

"T  CAME  on  this  trip,"  said  Colonel  Baggs,  "to 
rest  my  vocal  organs,  and  not  to  talk.  In  this 
ambition  I  have  been  greatly  aided  by  the  willingness 
of  Professor  Boggs  to  assume  the  conversational 
burden  in  our  seat.  However,  now  that  my  name 
has  been  drawn  from  the  hat,  I  shall  have  the  pleas- 
ure, and  honor,  lady  and  gentlemen,  to  entertain 
you  for  a  very  few  minutes — after  which,  thanking 
you  for  your  very  kind  attention  and  liberal  patron- 
age, the  hay — ihe  hay,  my  friends,  for  me!" 

At  the  Lake  Hotel,  to  which  they  had  come  by 
boat,  they  found  their  tents  pitched  and  their  din- 
ner awaiting  them — for  which  they  were  indebted  to 
the  efficiency  of  Aconite  and  the  Hired  Man,  who 
had  come  overland ;  and  the  latter  of  whom  assured 
them  that  they  had  missed  the  greatest  curiosity  of 
the  Park  in  failing  to  see  the  Natural  Bridge. 

"On  your  way,  Bill!"  said  the  Groom.  "You 
didn't  see  the  petrified  sea  serpent  swimming  off 
Gull  Point,  did  you?" 

206 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  207 

"Dumb  it  all,  no!"  exclaimed  Bill.    "I  never  am 
around  when  anything  good  is  pulled  off!" 


THE  LAW  AND  AMELIA  WHINNERY 

THE  TALE  OF  COLONEL  BAGGS  OF  OMAHA 

I  was  much  interested  (said  the  Colonel,  be- 
ginning his  story),  in  the  tale  told  by  my  learned 
brother,  Mr.  Snoke.  The  story  of  the  way  Mr. 
Lungy  Addison  committed  grand  larceny  in  getting 
away  with  the  Mortal  Cinch  mine  is  one  that,  fall- 
ing from  the  mouth,  as  it  does,  of  a  person  not 
learned  in  the  law  and  its  beauties,  must  be  true. 
Nobody  but  a  lawyer  could  have  invented  it — and  I 
assure  you  that  lawyers  are  too  busy  with  the  strange 
phases  of  truth  to  monkey — if  I  may  use  a  term  not 
yet  laundered  by  the  philologists — with  fiction.  The 
law  is  the  perfection  of  human  wisdom.  Our  courts 
are  the  God-ordained  instruments  by  which  these 
perfections  are  made  manifest  to  the  eyes  of  mere 
human  beings.  To  be  sure  the  courts  are  composed 
of  men  who  were  but  even  now  lawyers — but  that's 
neither  here,  there,  nor  yonder — when  the  anoint- 
ment of  their  judicial  consecration  runs  down  their 


208  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

beard,  as  did  the  oil  down  that  of  Aaron,  human  im- 
perfections are  at  end  with  them,  and  it's  all  off  with 
frailty.  And  this  brings  me  to  the  brief  story  which 
is  my  contribution  to  the  Yellowstone  Nights'  En- 
tertainment. I  sing,  my  beloved,  the  saga  of  The 
Law  and  Amelia  Whinnery. 

I  just  got  a  decision  over  in  Nebraska  in  the  case 
of  Whinnery  vs.  The  C.  &  S.  W.  It  shows  that 
Providence  is  still  looking  out  for  the  righteous  man 
and  his  seed.  Never  heard  of  Whinnery  vs.  the  Rail- 
way Company  ?  Well,  it  may  put  you  wise  to  a  legal 
principle  or  two,  and  I'll  tell  you  about  it.  I  was 
ag'in'  the  corporations  over  there,  as  associate  coun- 
sel for  the  plaintiff.  Bob  Fink,  that  studied  in  my 
office,  was  the  fellow  the  case  belonged  to,  and  he 
being  a  little  afraid  of  Absalom  Scales,  the  railroad's 
local  attorney,  sent  over  a  Macedonian  wail  to  me, 
and  said  we'd  cut  up  a  fifty  per  cent,  contingent  fee 
if  we  won.  I  went. 

Amelia  Whinnery  was  the  plaintiff.  She  was  a 
school-teacher  who  had  got  hold  of  the  physical  cul- 
ture graft,  and  was  teaching  it  to  teachers'  insti- 
tutes, making  forty  dollars  a  minute  the  year 
around. 

"How  much?"  asked  the  Hired  Man. 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  209 

"I'm  telling  you  what  the  record  showed  as  I  re- 
member it,"  said  the  Colonel.  "We  proved  that  she 
was  doing  right  well  financially  when  the  railroad 
put  her  out  of  business  by  failing  to  ring  a  bell  or 
toot  a  whistle  at  the  crossing  coming  into  Tovala, 
and  catching  Bill  Williams'  bus  asleep  at  the  switch. 
Miss  Whinnery  was  in  the  bus.  When  it  was  all 
over,  she  was  in  pretty  fair  shape — " 

"Naturally,"  interpolated  the  Artist. 

"Excepting  that  her  nerves  had  got  some  kind 
of  a  shock  and  she  was  robbed  permanently  of  the 
power  of  speech." 

"How  terrible !"  exclaimed  the  Bride. 

On  the  trial  she  sat  in  the  court-room  in  a  close- 
fitting  dress,  wearing  a  picture  hat,  and  would  give 
a  dumb  sort  of  gurgle  when  Scales  would  pitch  into 
her  case,  as  if  to  protest  at  being  so  cruelly  assaulted 
while  defenseless.  It  was  pathetic. 

Bob  Fink  shed  tears,  while  he  pictured  to  the 
jury  in  his  opening,  the  agony  of  this  beautiful  girl 
set  off  from  her  kind  for  life,  as  the  preponderance, 
the  clear  preponderance  of  the  evidence  showed  she 
would  be,  by  dumbness — "an  affliction,  gentlemen  of 
the  jury,  which  seals  her  lips  forever  as  to  the  real 
facts,  and  stops  the  reply  she  could  otherwise  make 


210  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

to  the  dastardly  attack  of  my  honorable  and  learned 
friend,  the  attorney  for  this  public-service  corpora- 
tion, which  has  been  clothed  with  the  power  to  take 
away  your  land,  gentlemen  of  the  jury,  or  mine, 
whether  we  want  to  sell  it  or  not,  and  to  rob  us  of 
our  produce  by  its  extortionate  freight  rates,  and  to 
run  its  trains  into  and  through  our  cities,  and  over 
our  busses,  and  to  maim  and  injure  our  ladies,  and 
bring  them  before  juries  of  their  peers,  who,  unless 
I  mistake,  will  administer  a  stinging  rebuke  to  this 
corporation  without  a  soul  to  save  or  a  body  to  kick, 
in  the  only  way  in  which  it  can  be  made  to  feel  a 
rebuke — in  damages,  out  of  that  surplus  of  tainted 
dollars  which  its  evil  and  illegal  practices  have 
wrung  from  the  hard  hands  of  toil  as  represented 
by  the  farmers  and  laborers  who  so  largely  compose 
this  highly-intelligent  jury." 

"Good  spiel/'  commented  the  Groom. 

Bob  was  good  until  the  other  side  had  the  re- 
porter begin  to  take  his  speech  down,  so  as  to 
show  appeals  to  passion  and  prejudice — and  then 
he  hugged  the  record  close.  The  plaintiff  sobbed 
convulsively.  Bob  stopped  and  swallowed,  knowing 
that  the  reporter  couldn't  get  the  sobs  and  swallows 
into  the  record.  The  jurors  blew  their  noses  and 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  211 

glared  at  Scales  and  the  claim-agent.  I  went  over  to 
the  plaintiff  and  gave  her  a  drink  of  water,  and 
would  have  liked  to  take  her  in  my  arms  and  com- 
fort her,  but  didn't. 

"Too  bad !"  remarked  the  Poet. 

Well,  the  jury  found  for  us  in  about  three  hours 
for  the  full  amount,  ten  thousand  dollars  and  costs. 
They  would  have  agreed  earlier,  only  they  waited  so 
the  state  would  have  to  pay  for  their  suppers.  A 
judgment  was  rendered  on  the  verdict,  and  the  rail- 
road appealed.  All  this  time  Bob  was  getting  more 
and  more  tender  toward  the  plaintiff.  I  didn't  think 
much  about  it  until  cards  came  for  their  wedding. 
I  sent  Bob  an  assignment  of  my  share  in  the  verdict 
for  a  wedding  present — if  we  ever  got  it.  Amelia 
promised  to  love,  honor  and  cherish  by  nodding  her 
head,  and  walked  away  from  the  altar  with  her  most 
graceful  physical  culture  gait,  while  the  boys  outside 
with  their  shivaree  instruments  ready  for  the  even- 
ing, sang  in  unison,  "Here  comes  the  bride !  Get  on 
to  her  stride!"  It  was  a  recherche  affair — but  ex- 
cessively quiet  nuptials  on  the  bride's  side. 

That  evening  Absalom  Scales  got  in  the  finest 
piece  of  work  that  was  ever  pulled  off  in  any  law- 
suit in  Nebraska.  The  bridal  party  went  away  over 


212  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

the  C.  &  S.  W.  Omaha  Limited,  and  Amelia  and 
Bob  were  there  looking  as  fine  as  fiddles — Amelia  a 
picture,  they  said,  in  her  going-away  gown.  Scales 
had  fixed  up  for  a  crowd  of  hoodlums  to  shivaree 
them  as  they  went. 

"Mighty  mean  trick,  I  should  say,"  said  the  Hired 
Man,  "for  any  one  but  a  corporation  lawyer." 

"Wait,  Brother  Snoke,"  protested  the  Colonel, 
"until  you  are  so  far  advised  in  the  premises  as  to 
be  able  to  judge  whether  the  end  didn't  justify  the 
means." 

In  addition  to  the  horse-fiddles  and  bells  and 
horns,  Absalom  had  arranged  some  private  the- 
atricals. He  had  plugged  up  a  deal  by  which  Bill 
Williams,  the  bus  man — who'd  sold  out  and  was 
going  to  Oregon  anyway — came  bursting  into  the 
waiting-room  while  they  were  waiting  for  the  train 
< — which  was  held  at  the  water-tank  by  Scales'  pro- 
curement and  covin — and  presented  a  bill  for  the 
damages  to  his  bus  by  the  accident  which  had  hurt 
Amelia's  oratorical  powers.  You  see,  he'd  never 
been  settled  with,  being  clearly  negligent.  They  tried 
to  get  off  in  Amelia's  case  on  the  doctrine  of  imputed 
negligence,  but  it  wouldn't  stick. 

Well,  Bill  comes  in  with  his  claim  against  Amelia 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  213 

and  Bob  for  two  or  three  hundred  dollars  for  his 
bus.  They  disdainfully  gave  him  the  ha-ha. 

'Then/'  says  Bill  Williams,  "I  will  tell  all, 
woman!" 

Amelia  flushed,  and  looked  inquiringly  at  Bob. 
Bob  walked  up  to  Bill  and  hissed :  "What  do  you 
mean,  you  hound,  by  insulting  my  wife  in  this  way !" 

"She  knows  what  I  mean,"  yelled  Bill,  turning 
on  Amelia.  "Ask  your  wife  what  she  an'  I  was  talk- 
in'  about  when  we  was  a-crossing  the  track  that 
time.  Ask  her  if  she  didn't  say  to  me  that  I  was  the 
perfec'ly  perportioned  physical  man,  an'  whether  I 
didn't  think  that  men  an'  women  of  sech  perportions 
should  mate;  an'  if  she  didn't  make  goo-goo  eyes  at 
me,  ontil  I  stuck  back  my  head  to  kiss  her,  an' 
whether  she  wasn't  a-kissin'  me  when  that  freight 
come  a  pirootin'  down  an'  run  over  her  talkin'  ap- 
paratus! Ask  her  if  she  didn't  say  she  could  die 
a-kissin'  me,  an'  if  she  didn't  come  danged  near  do- 
in' it!" 

"How  perfectly  horrid !"  gasped  the  Bride. 

Well,  Bob  Fink  was,  from  all  accounts,  per- 
fectly flabbergasted.  There  stood  Bill  Williams  in 
his  old  dogskin  coat  and  a  cap  that  reeked  of  the 
stables,  and  there  stood  the  fair  plaintiff,  turning 


214  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

redder  and  redder  and  panting  louder  and  louder  as 
the  enormity  of  the  thing  grew  upon  her.  And  then 
she  turned  loose. 

Amelia  Whinnery  Fink,  defendant  in  error,  and 
permanently  dumb,  turned  loose. 

She  began  doubling  up  her  fists  and  stamping  her 
feet,  and  finally  she  burst  forth  into  oratory  of  the 
most  impassioned  character. 

"Robert  Fink!"  she  said,  as  quoted  in  the  motion 
for  a  reopening  of  the  case  that  Scales  filed — "Rob- 
ert Fink,  will  you  stand  by  like  a  coward  and  see  me 
insulted?  That  miserable  tramp — a  perfect —  If 
you  don't  kill  him,  I  will.  /  kiss  him?  7  ask  him 
such  a  thing?  Bob  Fink,  do  you  expect  me  to  go 
with  you  and  leave  such  an  insult  unavenged  ?  No, 
no,  no,  no — " 

"I  don't  blame  her !"  interjected  the  Bride. 

I  guess  she'd  have  gone  on  stringing  negatives 
together  as  long  as  the  depot  would  have  held  'em, 
if  Bob  hadn't  noticed  Ike  Wither  spoon,  the  short- 
hand reporter,  diligently  taking  down  her  speech  and 
the  names  of  those  present.  Then  he  twigged,  and, 
hastily  knocking  Bill  down,  he  boarded  the  train 
with  Amelia.  He  wired  me  from  Fremont  that  it 
was  all  off  with  the  judgment,  as  they'd  tormented 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  215 

Mrs.  Fink  into  making  a  public  speech.  I  answered, 
collect,  bidding  him  be  as  happy  as  he  could  in  view 
of  the  new-found  liberty  of  speech  and  of  the  press, 
and  I'd  look  after  the  judgment  and  the  appeal. 

"Well,"  said  the  Groom,  "of  course  you  got  licked 
in  the  Supreme  Court.  It  was  clear  proof  that  she'd 
been  shamming." 

"You're  about  as  near  right  on  that  as  might  be 
expected  of  a  layman,"  retorted  the  Colonel.  "Just 
about.  The  law  is  the  perfection  of  human  reason. 
The  jury  had  found  that  Amelia  Whinnery  couldn't 
speak,  and  never  would  be  able  to.  A  jury  had  ren- 
dered a  verdict  to  that  effect,  and  judgment  for  ten 
thousand  dollars  had  been  entered  upon  it.  I  merely 
pointed  out  to  the  Supreme  Court  that  they  could 
consider  errors  in  the  record  only,  and  that  it  was 
the  grossest  sort  of  pettifogging  and  ignorance  of 
the  law  for  Absalom  Scales  to  come  in  and  introduce 
such  an  impertinence  as  evidence — after  the  evi- 
dence was  closed — that  the  fair  plaintiff  had  been 
shamming  and  was,  in  fact,  a  very  free-spoken  lady. 
The  bench  saw  the  overpowering  logic  of  this,  and 
read  my  authorities,  and  Bob  and  Amelia  will  hence- 
forth live  in  the  best  house  in  their  town,  built  out 
of  the  C.  &  S.  W.  surplus — and  Amelia  talking  six- 


216  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

teen  hours  a  day.  It's  locally  regarded  as  a  good 
joke  on  the  railroad." 

"But  was  it  honest  ?"  queried  the  Bride. 

"Honest,  me  lady!"  repeated  the  Colonel,  a  la 
Othello.  "My  dear  young  lady,  the  courts  are  not  to 
be  criticized — ever  remember  that !" 

"That  makes  me  think,"  said  the  Hired  Man,  "of 
the  darndest  thing — " 

"In  that  case,"  said  the  Poet,  "your  name  will  be 
considered  drawn  for  the  next  number.  Save  this 
darndest  thing  for  its  own  occasion — which  will  be 
at  our  next  camp.  Oneiros  beckons,  and  I  go." 

"In  that  case,"  said  Aconite,  "I'd  go,  you  bet!" 


CHAPTER  IX 

OMING  in  from  the  right  as  they  took  the  open 
trail  again,  the  Cody  Road  beckoned  them  east- 
ward, as  a  side  road  always  beckons  to  the  true 
wanderer. 

"What  does  it  run  to?"  asked  the  Groom. 

"Wyoming,"  responded  Aconite.  "It's  nothing 
but  scenery  and  curiosities." 

"Let's  follow  it  a  little  way,"  suggested  the  Bride, 
"and  see  how  we  like  it" 

Three  miles  or  so  on  the  way,  the  surrey  halted 
at  a  beautiful  little  lake,  which  lay  like  a  fragment 
broken  off  Yellowstone  Lake,  the  shore  of  which  lay 
only  a  stone's  throw  to  the  right.  They  walked  over 
to  the  big  lake  to  bid  it  farewell.  A  score  of  miles 
to  the  south  lay  Frank  Island,  and  still  farther  away, 
shut  off  by  the  fringe  of  rain  from  a  thunder 
shower,  the  South  Arm  seemed  to  run  in  behind 
Chicken  Ridge  and  take  to  the  woods.  To  the  south- 
west stood  Mount  Sheridan,  and  peeping  over  his 

217 


218  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

shoulder  the  towering  Tetons  solemnly  refused  even 
to  glimmer  a  good-by. 

"For  all  that,"  said  the  Bride,  "au  revoir!  We'll 
come  back  one  of  these  days,  won't  we,  Billy?" 

"Sure!"  said  Billy.  "I'm  coming  up  to  put  in  a 
power  plant  in  the  Grand  Canon,  one  of  these  days. 
This  scenery  lacks  the  refining  touch  of  the  spillway 
and  the  penstock!" 

Fifteen  minutes'  driving  brought  them  to  the  sec- 
ond halt,  a  big  basin  of  water,  from  which  steam 
issued  in  a  myriad  of  vents.  Aconite  suggested  that 
they  stroll  down  to  the  beach  and  take  a  look  at  the 
water.  They  found  it  in  a  slow  turmoil,  the  mud 
rising  from  the  bottom  in  little  fountains  of  tur- 
bidity, the  whole  effect  being  that  which  might  be 
expected  if  some  mud-eating  giant  were  watching 
his  evening  porridge,  expecting  it  momentarily  to 
boil. 

"I  don't  care  much  for  this,"  said  the  Bride. 

"I'm  not  crazy  about  it  myself,"  assented  the 
Artist. 

"What's  the  next  marvel?"  asked  the  Colonel. 

"Wedded  trees,"  said  Aconite. 

"Getting  sated  with  'em,"  said  the  Poet. 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  219 

"Apollinaris  Springs,  Sylvan  Lake,  fine  views  of 
Yellowstone  Lake  and  the  mountains,  bully  rocks 
and  things  clear  to  Cody." 

"And  on  the  other  hand,"  said  the  Professor, 
"what  are  the  features  on  the  regular  road  from 
which  we  have  diverged  ?" 

"Everything  you  come  to  see,"  responded  Aco- 
nite. "Mud  Volcano,  with  a  clear  spring  in  the  grot- 
to right  by  it ;  Mud  Geyser,  off  watch  for  a  year  or 
more ;  Trout  Creek,  doubled  around  into  the  N.  P. 
trade-mark ;  Sulphur  Mountain — we  can  camp  right 
near  there,  and  see  it  in  the  morning,  when  we  ought 
to  see  it — and  on  beyond,  the  Grand  Canon  and 
everything.  Besides — unless  we  go  that-a-way,  we'll 
never  git  back  unless  we  come  by  the  Burlington 
around  by  Toluca  and  Billings.  Of  course,  it's  all 
the  same  to  me — I  don't  keer  if  we  never  go  back 
or  git  anywhere.  I'm  havin'  a  good  time." 

"Turn  the  plugs  around,"  said  the  Colonel. 

In  half  an  hour  or  so  they  were  back  on  the  great 
north  road  again.  The  horses  seemed  to  feel  the 
pull  of  the  stable — still  days  ahead,  for  they  trotted 
briskly  along,  while  the  tourists  gazed  with  sated 
eyes  on  the  beautiful  Yellowstone  River  on  the  right 


220  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

hand,  its  pools  splashing  with  the  plunges  of  the 
great  trout ;  and  on  their  left  the  charming  mountain 
scenery.  Even  the  grotesque  Mud  Volcano,  with  its 
suggestions  of  the  horrible  and  uncouth,  failed  to 
elicit  the  screams  from  the  Bride,  or  the  ejaculations 
of  amazement  from  the  men  which  characterized 
their  deliverances  earlier  in  the  journey.  Entering 
Hayden  Valley,  they  were  delighted  at  the  sight  in 
the  middle  distance  of  a  dozen  or  more  buffaloes, 
which  held  up  their  heads  for  a  long  look,  and  dis- 
appeared into  the  bushes.  Not  ten  minutes  later, 
fifty  or  sixty  elk  walked  down  to  the  Yellowstone  to 
drink,  crossing  the  road  within  a  minute  of  the 
tourists'  passage.  Aconite  pulled  up  in  the  shadow 
of  Sulphur  Mountain,  the  Hired  Man,  with  the  as- 
sistance of  the  party,  soon  had  a  fine  fire  blazing, 
and  presently  a  pan  of  trout,  hooked  by  the  Bride, 
the  Groom,  the  Artist  and  the  Poet,  and  dressed  by 
the  skilful  Aconite,  were  doing  to  a  turn  on  the 
skillet. 

The  Hired  Man,  realizing  that  he  was  under 
obligation  to  tell  his  version  of  the  "darndest  thing" 
in  his  experience,  was  solemn,  as  befits  a  public  per- 
former. When  the  psychological  moment  was  pro- 
claimed by  the  falling  down  into  a  roseate  pile  of 


YELLOWSTONE   NIGHTS  221 

coals  of  the  last  log  for  the  night,  he  discharged  his 
duty  and  told  this  unimportant  tale : 

HENRY  PETERS'S  SIGNATURE 

THE   HIRED   MAN'S   SECOND   TALE 

The  Colonel's  story  of  how  the  law  and  the  courts 
work,  reminded  me  of  what  happened  to  old  Hen 
Peters  and  his  forty-second  nephew,  Hank.  It  all 
arose  from  a  debate  at  the  literary  at  the  Bollinger 
school-house  back  in  Iowa. 

You  see,  old  Hen's  girl  Fanny  come  home  from 
the  State  Normal  at  Cedar  Falls  as  full  of  social 
uplift  as  a  yeast-cake,  and  framed  up  this  literary. 
It  was  a  lulu  of  a  society,  and  nights  when  the  sled- 
ding was  good,  the  teams  just  surrounded  the  lot, 
and  the  bells  jingled  as  uplifting  as  you  could  ask. 

The  night  of  the  scrap  Hank  brought  Fanny. 
The  debate  was  on  which  was  the  most  terrible 
scourge,  fire  or  water.  Hank  was  on  the  negative, 
and  Fanny's  father  on  the  affirmative.  Old  Hen 
spoke  of  the  way  prairie  fires  dez/ortated  things  in 
an  early  day,  and  read  history,  and  gave  a  beautiful 
tribute  to  the  Chicago  fire  and  the  O'Leary  cow. 
Hank  coughed  with  the  dust  kicked  up  when  Hen  sat 


222  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

down,  but  he  got  back  with  a  rhapsody  on  the 
Hoang-Ho  floods,  and  the  wet  season  in  Noah's 
time.  He  said  that  his  honorable  opponent  ought  to 
take  a  moment  or  two  from  time  to  time  to  ascertain 
the  properties  of  water  as  a  scourge,  as  an  inward 
remedy,  and  as  a  lotion. 

Now  besides  having  an  appetite  for  red-eye,  old 
Hen  was  whiskery  and  woolly-necked,  and  handling 
lots  of  tame  hay,  he  looked  sort  of  unwashed.  So  the 
crowd  yelled  shameful  and  laughed ;  and  when  Hen 
got  up  to  answer,  he  was  so  mad  his  whiskers  stood 
out  like  a  rooster's  hackle,  his  words  came  out  in  a 
string  like,  all  lapped  on  one  another,  and  blurred, 
and  linked  together  so  yoi*  couldn't  tell  one  from  the 
other;  and  finally  they  reversed  on  the  bobbin,  and 
gigged  back  into  his  system,  and  rumbled  and  rever- 
berated around  in  him  like  a  flock  of  wild  cattle 
loose  in  an  empty  barn ;  and  the  crowd  got  one  of 
those  giggly  fits  when  every  one  makes  the  other 
laugh  till  they  are  sore  and  sick.  Asa  Wagstaff  fell 
backward  out  of  a  window  on  to  a  hitching-post, 
and  made  Brad  Phelps'  team  break  loose.  Old  Hen 
stood  shaking  his  fist  at  them  and  turning  so  red 
in  the  face  that  he  got  blue,  and  sat  down  without 
saying  a  syllable  that  any  one  could  understand. 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  223 

You  could  hear  folks  hollering  and  screaming  in 
fits  of  that  laughing  disease  going  home,  and  get- 
ting out  and  rolling  in  the  snow  because  they  were 
in  agony,  and  nothing  but  rolling  would  touch  the 
spot.  But  old  Hen  Peters  seemed  to  be  immune. 

Now,  in  a  debate,  no  man  is  supposed  to  have 
friends  or  relations,  and  he  floors  his  man  with  any- 
thing that  comes  handy,  and  Hank  never  dreamed 
that  Hen  would  hold  hardness  when  he  got  over  his 
mad  fit.  Hank  and  Fanny  had  things  all  fixed  up, 
and  had  been  pricing  things  at  the  Banner  Store, 
and  sitting  up  as  late  as  two  o'clock;  but  the  next 
Sunday  night  she  met  him  at  the  door  and  told  him 
maybe  he'd  better  not  come  into  the  sitting-room  till 
her  pa  cooled  off.  Hank  was  knocked  off  his  feet, 
and  they  stood  out  in  the  hall  talking  sort  of  tragic 
until  old  Hen  yelled  "Fanny!"  from  the  sitting- 
room,  and  they  pretty  near  jumped  out  of  their 
skins,  and  stood  farther  apart,  and  Fanny  went  in. 
In  the  spring  there  was  a  row  over  the  line  fence, 
ending  in  a  devil's  lane.  Fanny  looked  pretty  blue, 
only  when  she  was  fighting  with  her  pa.  Hen  would 
lecture  about  the  two  Peters  brothers  that  came 
across  in  1720,  and  how  all  Peterses  that  were  not 
descended  from  them  were  Nimshies  and  impostors. 


224  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

"I  despise  and  hate,"  says  he,  "a  Nimshi  and  an 
impostor." 

Then  Fanny  would  shoot  back  a  remark  about  the 
Iowa  Herald's  college,  and  when  was  her  pa  going  to 
paint  the  Peters  coat-of-arms  on  the  hay-rake  and 
the  hog-house,  using  sarcasm  that  no  man  could  un- 
derstand after  being  out  of  school  as  long  as  her 
father  had  been.  Sometimes  the  old  man  would  for- 
get the  spurious  registry  of  the  Hank  family  in  the 
Peters  herd-book,  and  would  argue  that  relations, 
even  the  most  remote  and  back-fence  kind,  ought  to 
be  prosecuted  if  they  even  dreamed  of  marrying; 
and  then  Fanny  would  say  that  it  is  such  a  pleasure 
to  know  that  folks  are  not  always  related  when  they 
claim  to  be.  Hen  would  then  cuss  me  for  not  taking 
care  of  my  horses'  shoulders  or  something,  and 
things  would  get  no  better  rapidly. 

Young  folks  need  to  meet  once  in  a  while  in  or- 
der to  keep  right  with  each  other,  and  Jim  Miller 
and  I  often  spoke  of  the  way  old  Hen  was  splitting 
Hank  and  Fanny  apart.  Then  an  Illinois  man  come 
out  and  bought  Hank  out  at  a  hundred  an  acre,  and 
Hank  wadded  his  money  into  his  pocket,  and  bid 
good-by  to  the  neighborhood  for  good  and  all.  He 
never  crossed  the  township  line  again.  Fanny  flirted 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  225 

like  sixty,  and  cried  when  she  was  alone;  but  old 
Hen  was  as  tickled  as  a  colt. 

It  seemed  like  a  judgment  on  Hen  for  driving  as 
good  a  man  as  Hank  to  Dakota  to  have  Fillmore 
Smythe  begin  yelping  on  his  trail.  His  first  yelp 
was  a  letter,  asking  Hen  to  call  and  pay  a  three-hun- 
dred-dollar note  Fillmore  had  for  collection.  And 
here's  where  the  law  begins  to  seep  into  the  story. 
Hen  had  Fanny  type-write  a  scorching  answer,  say- 
ing that  Hen  Peters  had  discounted  his  bills  since 
before  Fillmore  Smythe  was  unfortunately  born, 
and  didn't  owe  no  man  a  cent ;  and  Hen  was  so  mad 
that  he  kicked  a  fifty-dollar  collie  pup,  and  hurt  its 
feelings  so  it  never  would  work,  but  went  to  killing 
young  pigs  and  sheep  the  way  a  collie  will  if  you 
ever  sour  their  nature  by  licking  them.  Funny  about 
collies. 

One  day  old  Hen  come  in  from  the  silo,  and  saw 
Fillmore  Smythe's  team  tied  at  the  gate,  and  Fill- 
more  sitting  with  Fanny  on  the  stoop,  reading 
Luctte. 

"I  hope  I  see  you  well,  Mr.  Peters,"  said  the  law- 
yer, kind  of  smooth-like. 

"None  the  better  for  seein'  you,  sir/'  said  Hen, 
jamming  his  mouth  shut  when  he  got  through  so  his 


226  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

mustache  and  whiskers  were  all  inserted  into  each 
other. 

Now  this  was  no  way  to  treat  a  person  from 
town,  and  Fanny  began  saying  how  wonderful  the 
sunset  was  last  night,  and  asking  did  he  ever  see  the 
moon-vine  flowers  pop  out  in  bloom  in  the  gloam- 
ing, and  to  curb  her  neck  and  step  high  the  way  they 
do  when  they're  bitted  in  college. 

"Any  particular  business  here?"  asked  old  Hen. 

"Ah,  yes!"  said  Smythe.  "In  addition  to  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  you  and  your  accomplished  fam- 
ily, I  desired  a  conference  as  to  the  curious  way  in 
which  that  little  note—" 

"Well,  now  that  you've  seen  my  accomplished 
family  as  much  as  I  want  you  to,"  growled  Hen, 
"you  can  git.  I  told  you  all  I'm  goin'  to  about  what 
you  call  my  note." 

"But,"  said  Fillmore,  sort  of  like  he  was  curry- 
ing a  kicking  mule,  "if  you'd  consent  to  look  at  it, 
I'm  sure  it  would  all  return  to  your  mind!" 

Hen  fired  him  off  the  place,  though,  and  he  sued 
Hen.  The  old  man  was  affected  a  good  deal  like  the 
collie  pup,  and  mulled  it  over,  and  got  sour  on  the 
world,  especially  lawyers  that  blackmailed  and 
forged.  He  said  he  knew  well  enough  that  Smythe 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  227 

either  did  it  or  knew  who  did,  and  that  every  lawyer 
ought  to  be  hung.  I  argued  for  imprisonment  for 
the  first  offense  for  a  no-account  lawyer  like  Smythe, 
with  a  life  sentence  if  it  was  proved  that  he  knew 
any  law,  and  the  death  penalty  for  good  lawyers  like 
Judge  McKenzie;  and  Hen  was  so  mad  at  me  for 
what  I  said  that  he  wouldn't  let  me  have  the  top 
buggy  the  next  Sunday  night  when  I  needed  it  the 
worst  way. 

The  big  doings  come  off  when  the  case  came  up 
to  be  tried.  I  quit  hauling  ensilage  corn,  and  went 
with  Fanny  and  the  old  folks  up  to  the  county  seat 
to  give  testimony  that  Hen  never  signed  that  note. 
Fanny  stayed  with  Phoebe  Relyea;  but  the  rest  of 
us  stopped  at  the  Accidental  Hotel,  where  most  of 
the  jurors  and  others  tangled  up  in  court  stayed  too. 

The  lawyer  in  the  case  ahead  of  us  was  a  new- 
comer, and  strung  it  out  day  after  day  to  advertise 
himself,  and  yelled  so  you  could  hear  him  over  in 
the  band-stand,  to  show  his  ability.  Hen,  all  the 
time,  was  getting  more  and  more  morbid,  and  forgot 
his  temperance  vows,  and  tried  to  talk  about  the  case 
to  everybody.  About  half  the  time  it  would  be  a 
juryman  he  would  try  to  confide  in,  and  this  made 
trouble  on  account  of  their  thinking  he  was  trying 


228  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

to  influence  them.  One  night  Hen  was  owly  as  sin, 
drinking  with  Walker  Swayne  from  Pleasant  Valley 
Township ;  and  when  he  cried  into  his  beer  because 
Fillmore  Smythe  was  trying  to  swindle  him  and 
blast  his  good  name,  Walker  slapped  him  for  ap- 
proaching him  on  a  case  he  might  be  called  to 
sit  on.  I  put  Hen  to  bed  at  the  Revere  House, 
and  told  Mrs.  Peters  he'd  been  called  home.  She 
'phoned  out  to  have  him  count  the  young  turkeys, 
and  the  Swede  second  man  had  no  more  sense  than 
to  say  he  had  not  been  there,  instead  of  placing 
him  where  they  had  no  telephone,  as  an  honest  hired 
man  with  any  sprawl  would  have  done.  You 
couldn't  trust  this  Swede  as  far  as  you  could  throw 
a  thesaurus  by  the  tail.  I  am  not  saying  that  he  was 
corrupt ;  but  he  was  just  thumb-hand-sided  and  lum- 
moxy,  and  blurted,  "Hae  ain't  bane  hare"  into  the 
transmitter  with  never  a  thought  of  the  danger  of 
telling  the  truth.  Mrs.  Peters  didn't  know  what  to 
be  distressed  about,  and  just  because  I'm  paid 
the  princely  salary  I  get  for  saying  nothing  about 
such  things,  she  jumped  on  me  like  a  duck  on  a 
June-bug. 

When  Hen  and  I  went  to  McKenzie's  office  the 
night  before  our  case  came  up,  the  lawyer  was  wor- 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  229 

ried.  He  asked  us  if  we  knew  who  was  going  to 
testify  against  us. 

"No,"  snapped  Hen;  "an5  I  don't  care.  Nobody 
ever  saw  me  sign  that  note,  and  it  don't  make  any 
matter." 

Then  he  went  on  to  tell  what  great  friends  he  and 
Judge  Brockway  used  to  be,  when  the  judge  used  to 
shoot  prairie-chickens  in  Hen's  stubble,  and  Mrs. 
Peters  cooked  the  chickens  for  the  judge. 

"Brockway  thinks  as  much  of  me  as  a  brother," 
said  Hen.  "He  told  me  as  much  when  he  was  run- 
ning for  judge.  He  won't  see  me  stuck." 

This  didn't  seem  to  impress  Judge  McKenzie 
much.  He  still  looked  worried,  and  said  the  other 
side  had  got  every  banker  in  town  on  their  side  as 
handwriting  experts. 

"I  don't  like  the  looks  of  things,"  said  he. 

Hen  flew  mad  at  the  idea  of  his  lawyer's  hinting 
that  any  man  could  get  stuck  in  such  a  case.  The 
judge  tried  to  explain,  and  Hen  asked  him  how 
much  the  other  side  was  paying  him,  and  the  judge 
threw  up  his  job.  Pretty  soon,  though,  Hen  got  him 
to  take  a  new  retainer  of  fifteen  dollars,  and  he 
opened  a  new  account  in  his  books.  This  made  Hen 
feel  good,  for  the  judge  was  great  with  juries  when 


230  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

he  was  sober.  He  was  good  and  sober  now,  for  he 
had  just  taken  the  drinking  cure  for  the  third  time. 
We  had  lots  of  faith  in  Providence  and  McKenzie, 
but  were  scary  as  three-year-olds  that  night  at  any 
strange  noise  in  the  brush.  You  know  how  it  is 
when  you  feel  that  way. 

Things  went  wrong  the  next  morning.  So  many 
of  the  jurors  said  that  Hen  had  talked  to  them  that 
Judge  Brockway  just  glared  at  Hen,  and  said  that 
the  court  was  not  favorably  impressed  by  tactics  of 
that  sort. 

Walker  Swayne  told  how  he  had  slapped  Hen's 
chops  to  drive  off  his  improper  advances,  and  Judge 
Brockway  said  that  he  could  not  condone  breaches 
of  the  peace;  but  a  juror,  like  a  woman,  was  justi- 
fied if  any  one;  and  when  old  Hen  asked  Mac  for 
the  Lord's  sake,  were  there  any  women  sitting  on 
this  case,  Brockway  wilted  Hen  again  with  a  look. 

I  asked  Hen  at  recess  if  he  thought  Brockway 
would  ask  him  as  a  friend  and  brother  to  sit  up  on 
the  bench,  and  he  flared  up  and  said  Brock  was  all 
right,  but  was  disguising  his  feelings  as  a  judge. 

"He's  got  a  disguise  that's  a  bird,"  said  I,  and 
Hen  said  I  might  consider  myself  discharged;  but 
wrote  me  a  note  after  court  took  up,  hiring  me  back. 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  231 

The  next  juror  up  related  another  case  of  Hen's 
vile  tactics,  and  the  judge  threatened  to  send  him  to 
jail  if  anything  more  bobbed  up.  Hen  fell  back  into 
his  chair  limpsy,  like  dropping  a  wet  string, — all 
spiral  like, — and  everybody  looked  at  us  in  horror 
for  our  pollyfoxing  with  the  jury.  As  a  matter  of 
fact,  in  his  state  of  beer  and  overconfidingness,  Hen 
would  have  wept  on  the  breast  of  a  wooden  Indian 
that  would  have  held  still  while  he  told  of  the  octo- 
pus and  its  forgeries.  In  all  the  time  I  worked  for 
him,  he  never  tried  once  to  destroy  the  jury  system 
or  his  country's  liberty. 

Finally  they  found  twelve  men  that  didn't  know 
anything  about  the  case  or  anything,  and  had  no 
opinions  or  prejudices  for  or  against  anything,  and 
the  lawyers  told  the  jury  what  they  expected  to 
prove. 

"The  sacred  system  of  trial  by  jury,"  said  Fill- 
more  Smythe,  "has  been  saved  from  the  attacks  of 
the  defendant  by  an  incorruptible  court.  Placed  on 
trial  before  this  intelligent  jury,  what  the  defendant 
may  do  I  can  not  even  guess;  but  we  have  here  in 
court  his  note,  signed  in  his  own  proper  person." 

"  'T  ain't  so !"  busted  out  Hen,  in  his  own  im- 
proper person.  "You  hain't  got  no  such  note!" 


232  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

"One  more  interruption  of  this  sort/'  said  the 
judge,  peeking  down  at  Hen,  "and  the  example  that 
I'll  make  of  you  won't  soon  be  forgotten.  Proceed, 
Mr.  Smythe!" 

"Concealing  his  love!"  whispers  I  to  Hen;  and 
he  put  the  leg  of  his  chair  on  my  foot  and  ground  it 
around  till  I  almost  yelled. 

When  they  had  marked  the  note  "Exhibit  A" 
the  way  they  do,  Smythe  said  "Plaintiff  rests," 
though  they  didn't  seem  near  as  tired  as  our  side 
was,  and  the  court  let  out  for  noon.  They  let  Mc- 
Kenzie  take  the  note  with  him  to  look  at.  There  it 
was  on  one  of  those  blanks  that  it  cost  me  a  good 
claim  in  Kansas  once  to  practise  writing  on,  and  I 
never  got  to  be  much  of  a  penman  either;  it  was 
signed  "Henry  Peters"  as  natural  as  life. 

"Well,"  questioned  Mac,  as  Hen  turned  it  over, 
"what  do  you  say  to  it,  Henry  ?" 

I  could  feel  that  all  the  time  McKenzie  had  had 
a  hunch  that  Hen  had  really  signed  the  note,  and 
Hen  felt  it,  too,  and  he  threw  to  the  winds  the  re- 
mains of  his  last  conversion,  and  his  fear  that  Mac 
would  strike  again,  and  talked  as  bad  as  if  he  was 
learning  a  calf  to  drink. 

"Why,   you   scoundrelly    Keeley   graduate,"   he 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  233 

yelled,  "what  did  I  tell  you!  That's  a  forgery,  as 
any  one  but  a  half-witted  pettifogger  could  see  by 
lookin'  at  it !" 

"I  sever  my  connection  with  this  case  right  now/' 
said  Mac,  away  down  in  his  chest,  and  as  dignified 
as  a  ring-master.  "No  inebriated  litigant  can  refer 
to  the  struggle  and  expense  I  have  incurred  in  lift- 
ing myself  to  a  nobler  plane  of  self-control,  and 
then  call  for  my  skill  and  erudition  in  extricating 
him  from  the  quagmire  of  the  law  in  which  his  im- 
prudences have  immeshed  him.  Go,  sir,  to  some 
practitioner  so  far  lost  to  manhood  as  to  be  able  to 
resist  the  temptation  to  brain  you  with  his  notary- 
public's  seal.  Leave  me  to  my  books!" 

Mac  went  into  the  next  room  and  shut  the  door, 
but  did  not  lock  it. 

"I  can  see/'  said  Colonel  Baggs,  "the  wisdom  of 
leaving  it  on  the  latch." 

I  took  and  apologized  for  Hen ;  but  Mac  stuck  his 
nose  in  a  book  and  waved  me  away.  If  Hen  had 
been  a  little  drunker  he  would  have  cried ;  and  I  went 
back  to  woo  McKenzie  some  more.  Finally,  he 
agreed  to  come  into  the  case  again,  on  payment  of 
another  retainer  fee  of  twenty  dollars.  Hen  was 
game,  and  skinned  a  double-X  off  his  roll  without  a 


234  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

flinch.  Mac  opened  up  a  new  account  in  his  books, 
and  Hen,  for  my  successful  diplomacy,  raised  my 
wages  two  dollars  a  month.  It  was  a  great  lesson 
to  me. 

Of  course  I  could  see  that  it  was  not  Hen's  sig- 
nature; for  his  way  of  writing  was  Spencerian, 
modified  by  handling  a  fork,  shucking  corn,  and  by 
the  ink  drying  up  while  he  was  thinking.  The  name 
on  the  note  was  kind  of  backhand.  Mac  asked  about 
other  Henry  Peterses,  and  Hen  told  him  that  there 
was  a  man  that  passed  by  that  name  in  the  county  a 
year  or  so  back,  but  that  he  never  had  credit  for 
three  hundred  cents,  never  bought  any  such  ma- 
chinery, and  had  escaped  to  Dakota. 

When  old  Hen  testified,  he  had  one  of  his  splut- 
tery  spells  of  reverse  English  caused  by  his  lan- 
guage getting  wound  on  the  shafting,  and  his  deny- 
ing the  signature  didn't  seem  to  make  much  impres- 
sion on  any  one.  Smythe  made  him  admit  that  he 
had  bought  the  tools,  and  had  no  check-stub  of  the 
payment;  and  when  he  said  he  paid  Bloxham  in 
cash,  Smythe  laid  back  and  grinned,  and  McKenzie 
moved  that  the  grin  be  took  down  by  the  reporter, 
so  he  could  move  to  strike  it  out. 

Everybody  just  seemed  to  despise  us  but  Mac; 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  235 

and  I  was  as  ashamed  as  a  dog.  This  Bloxham,  the 
machine  agent,  was  dead,  and  most  everybody  there 
had  been  to  his  funeral;  but  it  took  half  an  hour  to 
prove  his  demise.  Two  jurors  went  to  sleep  on  this, 
and  one  of  them  hollered  "Whay!  whay!"  in  his 
sleep,  like  he  was  driving  stock,  and  Brockway 
pounded  and  glared  at  us  for  it.  I  wished  I  was  back 
with  Ole  running  the  silage  cutter. 

All  this  time  we  kind  of  lost  sight  of  Mrs.  Peters 
and  Fanny.  Fanny  sent  some  word  over  to  the  Ac- 
cidental the  second  evening,  and  her  mother  went 
over  to  Relyea's,  and  came  back  kind  of  fluttery.  I 
was  sent  to  Fanny  with  a  suit-case  of  dresses  her 
mother  had  there,  and  Fanny  was  in  the  awfullest 
taking  with  blushing  and  her  breath  fluttering  like  a 
fanning-mill  with  palpitation  of  the  heart  that  I 
couldn't  think  what  was  the  matter  with  her.  She 
had  never  blushed  at  seeing  me  before.  I  began  to 
see  what  a  pretty  girl  she  was ;  but  I  couldn't  think 
of  tying  myself  down,  even  if  she  did.  She  came 
up  close  to  me,  shook  hands  with  me,  and  bid  me 
good-by  when  I  came  away.  This  was  a  sign  she 
wanted  to  hold  some  one's  hand  or  was  going  away ; 
and  I  knew  she  wasn't  expected  to  go  away.  It  set 
me  to  thinking.  Mac  said  he  wouldn't  want  her  tes- 


236  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

timony  until  the  surrey-butter  part,  if  then.  I  made 
up  my  mind  I'd  go  up  and  talk  with  her  once  in  a 
while,  instead  of  sticking  around  down-town.  But 
this  trial  absorbed  my  attention  when  the  experts 
came  on. 

Smythe  had  had  a  magnification  made  of  the 
name  on  the  note,  and  the  one  on  old  Hen's  letter, 
and  every  banker  in  town  went  on  and  swore  about 
these  names.  John  Smythe,  Fillmore's  half-brother, 
knew  Hen's  signature ;  and  had  had  to  study  hand- 
writing so  hard  in  the  bank  that  he  had  got  to  be 
an  expert.  He  was  always  thought  a  kind  of  a  ninny, 
but  here's  where  he  sure  did  loom  up  with  the  knowl- 
edge. He  acted  just  as  smart  as  those  Chicago  ex- 
perts we  read  about,  and  living  right  here  in  the 
county  all  the  time,  and  never  out  of  the  bank  a  day ! 
A  good  deal  of  my  ability  comes  from  dropping 
into  some  big  city  like  Fort  Dodge  or  Ottumwa,  or 
maybe  Sioux  City,  or  Des  Moines  every  winter,  and 
getting  on  to  the  new  wrinkles  and  broadening  out ; 
but  John  Smythe  was  always  behind  that  brass  rail- 
ing, like  a  cow  in  stanchions.  And  yet  he  was  able  to 
see  that  those  two  signatures  just  had  to  be  made  by 
the  same  man.  This  spiel  was  cutting  ice  with  the 
jury,  and  Mac  roared  and  pointed  out  where  they 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  237 

were  different;  but  Smythe  hinted  that  it  only 
seemed  so  because  Mac  was  ignorant.  He  could  just 
see  the  same  man  a-making  them — the  way  the  stem 
of  the  "P"  was  made,  and  the  finish  of  the  "y"  like 
a  pollywog's  tail  made  it  a  cinch.  Hen  swore  under 
his  powerful  breath  that  it  was  a  dad-burned  lie;  but 
it  looked  awful  plausible  to  me. 

"You  notice/'  said  Fillmore,  "that  the  name  on 
the  letter  is  more  scrawly  and  uneven  ?" 

"Yes/'  said  John,  "but  that  merely  means  that  he 
used  a  different  pen  or  was  nervous.  I  think  I  see  in 
the  last  the  characteristic  tremor  of  anger." 

This  looked  bad  to  me,  for  if  ever  a  man  had  a 
right  to  the  characteristic  tremor  of  anger,  it  was 
old  Hen  when  he  signed  that  letter.  It  showed 
Smythe  knew  what  he  was  at. 

Mac  showed  them  a  lot  of  Hen's  real  signatures, 
but  the  experts  said  they  only  made  it  clearer.  Every 
one  had  a  little  curlicue  or  funny  business  that  put 
Hen  deeper  in  the  hole;  and  he  finally  chucked  the 
bunch,  all  the  reporter  didn't  have,  in  the  stove. 
Fillmore  Smythe  inflated  himself  and  blew  up  at 
this;  but  Brockway,  still  concealing  his  love,  said 
that  while  it  looked  bad,  and  the  jury  might  consider 
this  destruction  of  evidence  as  one  of  the  facts,  the 


238  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

papers  belonged  to  defendant  and  the  court  didn't 
see  fit  to  do  anything.  Our  case  looked  as  bad  as  it 
could,  and  I  didn't  see  why  Smythe  hollered  so  about 
it.  The  jury  looked  on  us  as  horse-thieves  and 
crooks,  and  every  time  old  Hen  stepped,  he  balled 
things  up  worse. 

Whitten,  of  the  First  National,  was  stronger  than 
John  Smythe.  He  said  it  was  physically  impossible 
for  any  man  but  the  one  that  signed  the  letter  to 
have  made  that  note;  and  he  was  an  expert  from 
away  back.  He  pointed  out  the  anger  tremor,  too. 
Mac  showed  him  how  the  check-signatures  all  looked 
like  that  on  the  letter,  and  not  like  the  one  on  the 
note ;  but  Whitten  ^said  a  man  was  always  calm  when 
he  made  a  note,  and  mad  as  a  hatter  when  he  drew 
a  check.  Knowing  Hen,  this  looked  plausible  to  me, 
and  made  a  hit  with  the  jury.  The  man  that  hol- 
lered "Whay !"  wrote  it  down  on  his  cuff. 

Ole  Pete  Hungerford,  the  note-shaver,  snorted 
disdainfully  that  there  was  no  doubt  that  the  note 
was  genuine.  He  swore  that  a  bogus  check  I  made 
was  genuine,  too ;  and  got  redder  than  a  turkey  when 
he  found  I  had  made  it,  and  said  it  was  the  work  of 
a  skilful  forger.  The  man  that  hollered  "Whay !" 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  239 

looked  at  me  in  horror,  and  wrote  some  more  on  his 
cuff.  I  felt  considerable  cheap. 

Every  expert  said  the  same  thing.  I  believe  that 
there  was  one  while  when  Hen  would  have  admitted 
he  signed  the  note  if  they  had  called  him  and  raw- 
hided  him  enough.  Hen  had  some  hopes  when 
Zenas  Whitcher  of  the  Farmers'  Bank  had  some 
doubts  about  one  signature;  but  he  flattened  out 
again  when  he  found  it  was  the  one  on  the  letter  that 
had  old  Zenas  guessing,  and  that  he  was  dead  sure 
the  one  on  the  note  was  a  sure-enough  genuine  sig, 
only  it  looked  as  if  he  was  trying  to  disguise  his 
hand.  Fillmore  seemed  to  think  pretty  well  of  this, 
and  had  them  all  go  back  and  swear  about  this  dis- 
guise business.  They  could  all  see  wiggly  spots  now 
and  places  gone  over  twice  where  Hen  had  doubled 
on  his  trail  to  throw  pursuers  off  the  track  and  dis- 
guise his  hand.  It  begun  to  look  to  me  like  Hen  was 
up  to  some  skulduggery, — all  these  smooth  guys 
swearing  like  that, — but  Hen  was  paying  me  my 
wages  and  needed  friends,  and  I  stuck.  He  looked 
down  his  nose  like  an  egg-sucking  pup.  When  I 
came  on  to  swear  that  it  was  not  Hen's  signature  on 
the  note,  my  mind  was  so  full  of  curlicues  and  polly- 


240  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

wogs'  tails,  and  anger  tremors,  and  disguises,  and 
the  gall  of  my  swearing  against  these  big  men  that 
had  money  to  burn,  that  I  went  into  buck  fever,  and 
was  all  shot  to  rags  by  Smythe's  cross-examination, 
— any  of  you  fellows  would  be, — so  that  I  finally 
admitted  that  the  note  looked  pretty  good  to  me,  and 
that  I'd  have  probably  taken  it  for  Hen's  note  if  I'd 
been  a  banker  and  had  it  offered  to  me.  Mac  threw 
up  his  hands,  said  that  was  all  our  evidence,  then 
went  at  the  jury  hammer  and  tongs,  and  I  looked  at 
poor  old  Hen  all  collapsed  down  into  his  chair  like 
a  rubber  snake,  and  I  went  and  hid. 

In  the  morning  I  crawled  out,  supposing  that  it 
would  all  be  over,  and  wondering  where  I'd  find 
Hen;  but  I  heard  Judge  McKenzie's  closing  argu- 
ment rolling  out  of  the  court-house  windows  like 
thunder.  I  didn't  care  for  eloquence  the  way  I  was 
feeling,  and  was  just  sneaking  away,  when  who 
should  I  run  on  to  but  Fanny  walking  with  a  fellow 
down  under  the  maples.  I  was  shocked,  for  she  was 
hanging  to  his  arm  the  way  no  nice  girl  ought  to  do 
unless  it's  dark.  I  trailed  along  behind  to  see  who  it 
was,  when  the  fellow  turned  his  head  quick,  and  I 
saw  it  was  Hank.  They  come  up  to  me,  Fanny  still 
shamelessly  hanging  to  his  arm,  looking  excited  and 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  241 

foolish,  like  they  had  just  experienced  religion  or 
got  engaged. 

"Doc,"  said  Hank,  "we've  just  found  out  about 
it!" 

"I've  knowed  it  a  long  time,"  said  I  coldly. 
"What  is  it?" 

"This  lawsuit,"  said  Hank — "is  it  over,  or  still 
running?" 

"It's  still  running,"  I  said.  "Listen  at  the  ma- 
chinery rumble  up  there.  It's  all  over  but  the  shout- 
ing, and  we've  got  a  man  hired  to  do  that.  Why?" 

They  never  said  a  word,  but  scooted  up  the  stairs. 
I  strolled  in  and  found  Mac's  machinery  throwed 
out  of  gear  by  Hank's  interruption.  Hen  was  still 
collapsed,  and  didn't  see  Hank.  Mac  turned  grandly 
to  the  judge,  and  told  him  that  a  witness  he  had  been 
laboring  to  secure  the  attendance  of  from  outside 
the  jurisdiction  had  blowed  in,  and  he  wanted  the 
case  reopened.  Smythe  rose  buoyantly  into  the  air 
and  hooted,  but  Brockway  coldly  reopened  the  case, 
and  Hank  was  sworn.  The  juror  that  wrote  on  his 
cuff  looked  disgusted,  but  he  wrote  Hank's  name 
and  age  with  the  rest  of  his  notes. 

"Where  do  you  live?"  asked  Mac. 

"South  Dakota,"  answered  Hank. 


242  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

"Examine  'Exhibit  A,'  "  said  Mac  proudly,  hand- 
ing Hank  the  note,  "and  tell  the  jury  when  if  ever 
you  have  seen  it  before !" 

"When  it  was  signed,"  said  Hank. 

Old  Hen  kind  of  straightened  up.  Fanny  sat 
down  by  him,  and  put  her  arm  about  him.  She  sure 
did  look  pretty. 

"Who  signed  that  note?"  asked  Mac,  with  his 
voice  swelling  like  a  double  B-flat  bass  tuba. 

"I  did,"  answered  Hank. 

"I  object,"  yelled  Smythe,  trembling  like  a  leaf. 

"Overruled,"  said  Brockway  in  a  kind  of  tired 
way. 

"Do  you  owe  this  note?"  asked  Mac. 

"You  bet  I  do,"  answered  Hank,  "and  got  the 
money  to  pay  it.  I  went  to  Dakota  and  forgot  about 
the  darned  note.  Bloxham  shipped  the  machinery 
out  there  to  me.  It's  my  note  all  right ;  Hen  Peters 
never  saw  it  till  Smythe  got  it." 

The  room  was  full  of  wilted  experts.  This  did 
not  appeal  to  them  at  all.  McKenzie  laughed  fiend- 
ishly, as  if  he'd  had  this  thing  arranged  all  the  time. 
The  jury  looked  foolish,  all  but  the  one  that  hollered 
"Whay!"  and  he  looked  mad.  I  could  see  Hen  re- 
viving, and  throwing  off  his  grouch  at  Hank.  Fill- 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  243 

more  Smythe  said  he  had  a  question  or  two  in  cross- 
examination. 

"What  kin  are  you  to  the  defendant  ?"  he  asked. 

"That's  a  disputed  point,"  replied  Hank.  "I 
dunno  's  I'm  any  by  blood." 

"Are  you  not  related  to  him  in  any  way?"  asked 
Fillmore,  prying  into  things  the  way  they  do. 

"You  bet  I  am,"  spoke  up  Hank,  looking  over  at 
Fanny,  and  getting  red  in  the  face.  "He  don't  know 
about  it;  but  since  night  before  last  I've  been  his 
son-in-law." 


CHAPTER  X 

T  T  was  in  camp  at  Sulphur  Mountain  that  the 
Artist's  fate  overtook  him.  The  gods  pulled  his 
name  from  the  hat  by  the  hard  hand  of  the  Hired 
Man.  This  mystic  event  overshadowed  the  visit  to 
Sulphur  Spring — though  that  was  in  every  respect 
a  success.  It  was  timed  so  as  to  give  them  the  last 
of  the  dawn — the  splendid  flood  of  rare  light  which 
precedes  the  first  cast  of  his  noose  by  the  Hunter  of 
the  East — and  both  eye  and  camera  caught  beauti- 
fully the  myriads  of  steam  spirals  ascending  from 
the  hill,  each  from  its  own  vent.  The  spring  itself, 
the  Poet  compared  to  the  daily  press,  in  that  it  made 
a  mighty  and  unceasing  pother  and  dribbled  out  a 
mighty  small  amount  of  run-off — and  that  the  out- 
put stained  everything  with  which  it  came  in  con- 
tact a  bright  yellow. 

"No  matter  what  it  splashes/'  said  he,  "stick  or 
stone,  church,  family  or  court,  it  yellows  it." 

"Speaking  of  courts,"  said  the  Artist,  "and  the 
244 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  245 

law — I  think  our  friends  the  Colonel  and  Bill  have 
dealt  altogether  too  flippantly  with  them.  I  shall 
give  you  another  view  to-night." 

"Do  you  notice/'  said  the  Bride,  "how  peaceful 
and  sort  of  comforting  the  river  is?  It  is  as  placid 
as  a  lake — or  some  deep  river — like  the  Thames — 
made  for  pleasure  boats  and  freighters." 

"See  the  trout  leap!"  shouted  the  Colonel. 

"Well,"  said  Aconite,  "you  jest  watch  that  river, 
an'  it'll  surprise  yeh.  It  ain't  reformed  yit,  if  it  hez 
sobered  up.  An'  right  here — Whoa !" 

They  were  at  the  crossing  of  Alum  Creek,  and 
Aconite  halted  to  point  out  matters  of  interest. 

"Right  hyar,"  said  he,  "or  in  this  vicinity,  took 
place  one  of  the  most  curious  things  that  ever  hap- 
pened to  Old  Jim  Bridger.  This  crick  is  all  alum, 
'specially  up  at  the  head.  Over  yon" — pointing  to 
the  eastern  bank  of  the  Yellowstone  with  his  whip 
— "is  a  stream  named  Sour  Crick  comin'  in  from  the 
east.  It's  one  or  the  other  of  these  cricks,  'r  one  of 
the  same  kind,  that  Old  Jim  Bridger  was  obliged 
to  go  up  f'r  three  days  on  his  bronk,  one  time.  It 
was  a  long  trip.  But  on  the  way  back  he  noticed 
that  the  crick  had  flooded  the  country,  an'  gone 


246  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

down  ag'in,  an'  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  makin' 
better  time  than  goin5  up.  The  hills  that  was  low  an* 
rounded  when  he  went  up,  looked  to  him  steeper, 
and  higher,  an'  more  clustered  than  they  was.  He 
didn't  believe  this  could  be,  an'  wondered  how 
folks'  minds  acted  when  they  was  goin'  crazy. 
Finely,  he  found  his  first  camp,  after  he  had  been 
on  the  back  track  only  half  a  day.  He  couldn't  un- 
derstand how  he  could  Ve  made  the  distance  in  four 
hours  that  it  took  two  days  to  cover  comin'  up,  and 
begun  to  get  the  Willies.  He  come  to  a  bottom  that 
had  scattered  trees  on  comin'  up,  and  it  was  tim- 
bered so  thick  now  that  he  couldn't  go  through  it — 
but  it  wa'n't  furder  through  than  a  hedge  fence. 
Then  he  noticed  that  his  bronk  was  hobblin',  and 
observed  that  his  hooves  was  drawed  down  to  mere 
points,  but  good-shaped  hoss's  hooves  all  the  same 
— they  was  just  little,  like  the  hooves  of  a  toy  hoss. 
At  last  he  come  to  a  place  whar  there  had  been  two 
great  boulders  that  had  been  forty  rods  apart  when 
he  went  up — he  knowed  'em  by  marks  he  had  made 
on  'em  in  his  explorin'  around — an'  danged  if  they 
wasn't  jammed  up  agin'  each  other  so's  they  touched 
both  stirrups  when  he  rode  through  between  'em. 
An'  there  he  was  back  whar  he  started  from  in  a 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  247 

little  more'n  half  a  day.  He  got  to  studyin'  it  over, 
an'  found  that  this  crick  of  alum  water  had  over- 
flowed and  jest  puckered  the  scenery  up,  so  that  the 
distances  to  anywhere  along  its  valley  was  shrunk 
up  to  most  nothin' !" 

The  Hired  Man  looked  away  off  to  the  east,  and 
mentioned  that  the  fish-hawks  were  thick  this  morn- 
ing. The  Bride  giggled  a  very  slight  giggle — but 
the  others  were  impassive.  They  seemed  to  be  ab- 
sorbing some  of  the  taciturnity  of  the  Indian.  In 
the  meantime  the  river  did  begin  to  surprise  them. 
After  miles  of  deep  quiet,  its  valley  walls  began  to 
crowd  together. 

"Somebody  has  been  sprinkling  alum  on  this 
scenery/'  suggested  the  Colonel — "eh,  Aconite  ?" 

Aconite  clucked  solemnly  to  the  team. 

The  road  was  forced  to  the  very  edge  of  the  bank. 
The  river  became  mildly  excited,  as  if  in  protest 
at  the  constriction.  The  road  grew  wilder  and  the 
landscape  more  rugged;  and  suddenly,  the  river, 
tortured  by  the  pressure  of  the  narrow  trench  pro- 
vided for  it,  began  raging  and  foaming,  and  sending 
up  a  hoarse  roar,  which  grew  upon  them  like  an  ap- 
proaching tempest.  The  road  trod  first  a  narrow 
shelf  above  the  terrific  rapids,  and  then  a  bridge 


248  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

hung  like  a  stretched  rope  over  an  awesome  abyss. 
For  half  a  mile  the  tumult  below  grew,  until  it 
seemed  as  if  water  could  bear  no  more — when  sud- 
denly the  river,  just  now  ravening  through  a  mere 
fifty- foot  crack  in  the  rocks,  was  gone.  It  turned 
abruptly  away  from  the  road,  and  fell  away  into 
space.  They  had  passed  the  Upper  Falls,  where  the 
Yellowstone,  in  a  great  spouting  curve  drops  a  sheer 
hundred  and  twelve  feet  in  a  curtain  of  white  water, 
and  sends  up  from  the  bottom  of  the  canon  its 
hymn  to  liberty,  in  a  cloud  of  mist. 

They  were  no  longer  the  tired  sight-seers,  with 
jaded  senses;  for  this  was  new.  They  felt  the  thrill 
of  power.  And  as  they  passed  on,  promising  them- 
selves a  return  when  camp  should  be  made,  they 
cried  out  in  delight  as  the  Grand  Canon  of  the 
Yellowstone  displayed  the  stupendous  sluiceway  into 
which  the  river  had  fallen.  At  their  feet  the  lovely 
Crystal  Falls  of  Cascade  Creek  played  exquisitely, 
almost  unnoted.  The  roar  of  the  falls  followed  them 
to  the  Canon  Hotel  near  which  they  camped,  and 
leaving  the  pitching  of  the  tents  to  the  men,  they 
walked  to  the  brink  of  the  canon,  and  gazed  upon 
the  most  perfect  scene,  perhaps,  that  water,  in  its 
flow  to  the  sea,  has  anywhere  sculptured  and  painted 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  249 

to  delight  the  eye  of  man.  The  Yosemite  has  greater 
heights;  the  Colorado  offers  huger  dimensions,  the 
Niagara  or  the  Victoria  possess  mightier  cataracts ; 
but  nowhere  else  is  there  such  a  riot  of  color,  such 
dizzy  heights,  such  glooming  verdure,  and  such  mad 
waters,  united  in  one  surpassingly  splendid  scenic 
whole. 

They  saw  it  all — that  day,  and  subsequent  days. 
They  lingered  as  though  unable  to  leave  at  all.  They 
revisited  the  Upper  Falls  before  seeing  the  lower, 
so  as  to  view  them  in  fairness  and  with  no  injustice 
to  what  seemed  unsurpassable  beauty. 

"And  now,"  said  the  Bride,  "take  me  to  the 
greater  falls." 

It  was  as  if  she  had  seen  all  but  the  Holy  of 
Holies,  and  felt  the  exaltation  suitable  for  higher 
things. 

They  were  amazed  at  the  tremendous  plunge  of 
more  than  three  hundred  feet  which  their  river  (as 
they  now  called  it)  made  at  the  Lower  Falls — even 
to  the  foot  of  which  they  descended.  They  looked 
from  Inspiration  Point,  from  Artist's  Point,  from 
Lookout  Point.  They  watched  the  stream  dwarfed 
by  distance  to  a  trickle,  and  strangely  silent,  as  it 
wandered  at  the  bottom  of  the  gorge. 


250  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

And  at  last  the  time  came  to  leave.  Early  in  the 
morning  they  were  to  start ;  and  the  last  camp-fire 
was  smoldering  to  ashes  on  that  last  night  when  the 
Artist  found  his  audience  collected,  the  demand  for 
payment  of  his  obligation  presented;  and  without 
preface,  save  the  statement  that  his  was  the  story  of 
a  young  fool,  told  his  tale. 


THE  RETURN  OF  JOHN  SMITH 

THE  STORY  NARRATED  BY  THE  ARTIST 

His  name  was  John  Smith,  but  he  was  not  other- 
wise unworthy  of  notice.  Out  of  her  vast,  tem- 
pestuous experience  Blanche  Slattery  admitted  this 
as  she  swept  into  the  offices  and  looked  down  at  the 
boy,  noting  the  curl  in  his  hair  which  speaks  of  the 
hidden  vein  of  vanity,  the  wide  blue  eyes  which  told 
of  a  stratum  of  mysticism,  the  unsubdued  brawn  of 
hand  and  wrist  which  reminded  her  more  of  har- 
vests than  of  field-meets,  the  mouth  closely  shut  in 
purposeful  attention  to  one  Mr.  Thompson's  Com- 
mentaries on  the  Law  of  Corporations. 

He  thought  her  the  stenographer  and  kept  his 
eyes  on  the  page.  She  laid  a  card  on  his  desk — a 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  251 

card  at  which  he  looked  with  some  attention  before 
rising  to  meet  her  eyes  with  his  own,  which  dilated 
in  a  sort  of  horror,  as  she  thought.  Her  cheek  actu- 
ally burned,  though  it  grew  no  redder,  as  she  turned 
aside  with  the  crisp  statement  of  her  business. 

"I  want  to  see  Judge  Thornton,"  she  said. 

Without  a  word  John  Smith  pushed  a  button  and 
listened  at  a  telephone.  The  judge  took  his  time  as 
usual,  and  John  gazed  at  the  Slattery  person  with 
the  receiver  pressed  against  his  ear.  She  was  pow- 
dered and  painted ;  the  full  corsage  of  her  dress  glit- 
tered with  passementerie ;  in  her  form  the  latest  fad 
was  exaggerated  into  a  reminiscence  of  medieval 
torturing-devices.  Through  the  enamel  of  her  skin 
dark  crescents  showed  under  her  great  black  eyes, 
the  whites  of  which  were  mottled  here  and  there 
with  specks  of  red.  The  once  sweet  lips  had  lost 
their  softness  of  curve  with  their  vermeil  tincture 
.and  had  fallen  into  hard  repose. 

John  knew  her  profession  and  how  she  dominated 
her  world  of  saddest  hilarity — a  world  which 
through  all  mutations  of  time  and  institutions  per- 
sists as  on  that  day  when  Samson  went  to  Gaza.  He 
felt  that  there  emanated  from  her  a  sort  of  author- 
ity, like  a  sinister  manifestation  of  the  atmosphere 


252  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

surrounding  men  of  power  and  sway — as  though  by 
dark  and  devious  ways  this  soul,  too,  had  carved  out 
a  realm  in  which  it  darkly  reigned.  She  wondered, 
when  he  spoke,  whether  the  softness  in  his  voice 
were  for  her  or  whether  it  were  merely  a  thing  of 
habit. 

"Judge  Thornton  is  sorry  that  he  can  not  see  you 
this  morning/'  he  said.  "Between  ten  and  eleven 
to-morrow  if  it  is  convenient  for  you — " 

"All  right,"  she  said.  "I'll  be  here  at  half-past  ten. 
Good  morning!" 

The  perfume  of  her  presence,  the  rustling  of  her 
departure,  the  husky  depth  of  her  voice  haunting  his 
memory,  the  vast  vistas  through  which  the  mind  of 
the  country  boy  fared  forth  venturesomely,  impelled 
by  the  new  contacts  of  this  town  in  which  he  had 
undertaken  to  scale  the  citadel  of  professional  suc- 
cess— all  these  militated  against  the  sober  entice- 
ments of  the  law  of  corporations;  and  when  Judge 
Thornton  entered  unheard,  John  Smith  started  as 
though  detected  in  some  offense. 

"The  law,"  said  the  judge,  launching  the  hoary 
quotation,  "is  a  jealous  mistress." 

John  Smith  blushed,  but  saw  no  lodgment  for  a 
denial  where  there  was  no  accusation.  He  had  been 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  253 

allowing  his  thoughts  to  go  wool-gathering;  but 
now  he  began  questioning  the  judge  on  the  doctrine 
of  the  rights  of  minority  stock-holders.  The  judge 
condescended  to  a  five-minute  lecture  which  would 
have  been  costly  had  it  been  given  for  a  client  be- 
fore the  court.  In  the  midst  of  the  talk  there  bustled 
in  a  young  man — a  boy,  in  fact,  who  accosted  the 
lawyer  familiarly. 

"Just  a  minute,  Judge.  About  that  mass-meeting 
Tuesday — I'm  Johnson  of  the  News,  you  know. 
Will  you  speak  ?" 

"I  don't  think  the  readers  of  the  News  are  lying 
awake  about  it,"  answered  the  judge,  looking  at  the 
'boy  amusedly.  "But  my  present  intentions  go  no 
further  than  to  attend  the  meeting." 

"What  about  the  movement  for  cheaper  gas?" 
asked  the  reporter.  "Will  the  meeting  start  any- 
thing?" 

"The  meeting,"  said  the  judge,  "will  be  a  law 
unto  itself." 

"Sure,"  replied  Johnson  of  the  News.  "But  a 
word  from  you  as  to  the  extortions  of  the  gas  com- 
pany— " 

"Will  be  addressed  to  the  meeting — if  I  have 
any,"  said  the  judge.  "I—" 


254  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

"Oh,  all  right!"  interrupted  the  boy.  "That's 
what  I  wanted!  Good-by!" 

John  Smith's  amazement  at  the  boy's  self-posses- 
sion and  ready,  impudent  effrontery,  passed  away  in 
a  visualization  of  Judge  Thornton's  big,  strong  fig- 
ure at  the  meeting,  fulminating  against  oppression — 
the  oppression  of  to-day — as  did  Patrick  Henry  and 
James  Otis  against  the  wrongs  of  their  times.  Now, 
as  of  old,  thought  John  Smith,  the  lawyer  is  a  pub- 
lic officer,  charged  with  public  duties,  alert  to  do 
battle  with  any  tyrant  or  robber.  He  flushed  with 
pleasure  at  this  conception  of  the  greatness  of  the 
profession. 

"As  a  science,"  said  the  judge,  as  though  in  an- 
swer to  John's  thought,  "it's  the  greatest  field  of  the 
intellect.  It's  the  practice  that's  laborious  and  full  of 
compromises." 

"Yes,"  said  John  Smith,  lamenting  the  interrupted 
lecture  on  the  rights  of  jninority  stock-holders. 
Judge  Thornton  had  donned  his  coat  and  his  hat. 

"I'm  off  for  the  day.  Good  day  to  you — oh,  I  al- 
most forgot.  Do  you  want  to  hear  a  paper  on  King 
Lear  to-night?  Nellie  thought  you  might.  Poor 
paper — but  you'll  meet  people,  and  that's  a  part  of 
the  game." 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  255 

"Oh,  yes!"  cried  John.  "I'd  be  glad  to!" 

"Come  to  the  house  about  eight,"  said  the  judge, 
"and  go  with  Nellie  and  me." 

Ah,  this  was  living!  Why,  at  home  he  knew 
scarcely  a  person  who  had  read  more  of  Shakespeare 
than  the  quarrel  scene  in  the  Fifth  Reader.  Surely  it 
was  good  fortune  that  had  made  his  father  and 
Judge  Thornton  playmates  in  boyhood.  And  to  go 
with  Nellie  Thornton,  too ! 

"Paint  out  that  sign!"  he  heard  some  one  say. 
"And  what  goes  in  the  place  of  it,  sir?"  asked  the 
painter.  "  Thornton  &  Smith/  "  replied  the  judge's 
voice.  "My  son-in-law,  Mr.  Smith,  has  been  taken 
into  the  firm." 

The  stenographer  saw  exaltation  in  his  face  as  he 
closed  the  safe,  bade  her  good  night  and  went  home. 

As  he  sat  beside  Nellie  that  evening,  he  remem- 
bered the  fancied  colloquy  between  her  father  and 
the  imaginary  painter,  and  shuddered  as  he  contem- 
plated the  possibility  of  thought-transference  and  of 
its  ruinous  potentialities.  As  a  protection  against 
telepathy  he  gave  his  whole  attention  to  Judge 
Thornton's  paper  on  Lear.  The  indescribable  agony 
of  the  old  king's  frenzy,  the  whirling  tempest  of  the 
tragedy  in  which  he  wandered  to  his  doom  clutched 


256  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

at  the  boy's  heart.  The  wolfish  Goneril  and  Regan, 
the  sweet  Cordelia,  the  bared  gray  head,  the  storm, 
the  night —  By  some  occult  warning  John  Smith 
knew  that  Nellie  was  not  pleased  with  his  absorp- 
tion, and  that  the  discussion  had  begun. 

"This  treatment  is  so  original/'  said  the  lady 
president.  "Everybody  must  be  full  of  questions. 
Now  let  us  have  a  perfectly  free  discussion — don't 
wait  to  be  called  upon,  please!" 

To  John  Smith  the  lady  president  seemed  enthusi- 
asm personified;  yet  only  a  few  people  rose,  and 
these  merely  said  how  much  they  had  enjoyed  the 
paper.  John  Smith  could  see  himself  on  his  feet 
pouring  forth  comment  and  exposition,  but  he  sat 
close,  hoping  that  no  adverse  fate  might  direct  the 
lady  president's  attention  to  him.  The  discussion 
was  dragging;  one  could  tell  that  from  the  increas- 
ing bubbliness  of  the  lady  president's  enthusiasm  as 
she  strove  conscientiously  to  fulfil  her  task  of  im- 
posing culture  upon  society. 

"I'm  sure  there  must  be  something  more,"  she 
said.  "Perhaps  the  most  precious  pearl  of  thought 
of  the  evening  awaits  just  one  more  dive.  Mrs. 
Brunson,  can  you  not — " 

"I  always  feel  presumptuous,"  said  Mrs.  Brunson, 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  257 

hoarsening  her  voice  to  the  pitch  she  always  adopted 
in  public  speaking,  "when  I  differ  from  other  com- 
mentators. But  I  also  feel  that  the  true  critic  must 
put  himself  in  the  place  of  the  character  under  ex- 
amination. Isn't  there  a  good  deal  of  justification 
for  Goneril  and  Regan?  I  do  not  see,  personally, 
how  Lear  could  be  supposed  to  need  all  those  hun- 
dred knights,  with  their  drinking  and  roistering  and 
dogs  and — and  all  that.  I  believe  Lear's  fate  was  of 
his  own  making,  and — " 

John  Smith,  the  unsophisticated,  was  startled. 
The  unutterable  fate  of  "the  old,  kind  king" — could 
this  Olympian  circle  hold  such  treason  ? 

"No,  you  unnatural  hags, 
I  will  have  such  revenges  on  you  both, 
That  all  the  world  shall — I  will  do  such  things — 
What  they  are,  yet  I  know  not ;  but  they  shall  be 
The  terrors  of  the  earth.  You  think  I'll  weep; 
No,  I'll  not  weep : 

I  have  full  cause  of  weeping;  but  this  heart 
Shall  break  into  a  hundred  thousand  flaws, 
Or  ere  I'll  weep.  O,  fool,  I  shall  go  mad!" 

The  fiery  denunciation  rang  in  the  boy's  ears  in 
answer  to  the  words  of  this  modern  woman  with  her 
silks  and  plumes,  standing  here  in  a  church  and,  in 
spite  of  the  softening  things  of  her  heritage,  sympa- 
thizing with  these  fierce  sisters!  Others  rose  and 
agreed  with  her.  One  read  the  words  of  Regan : 


258  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

"O,  sir,  you  are  old ; 
Nature  in  you  stands  on  the  very  verge 
Of  her  confine :  you  should  be  ruled  and  led 
By  some  discretion  that  discerns  your  state 
Better  than  you  yourself." 

These,  was  the  comment,  were  the  really  sane  words 
regarding  Lear. 

"Oh,  well!"  said  Judge  Thornton  as  John  broke 
his  fast  and  the  abstinence  of  a  lifetime  in  the  par- 
lor, upon  the  cakes  and  wine  served  by  Nellie.  "It 
didn't  surprise  me  a  bit.  Mrs.  Brunson  thinks  she'd 
do  as  Goneril  and  Regan  did  with  their  father — and 
she  would.  She'd  avoid  the  little  peccadilloes  with 
Edmund  and  so  remain  technically  virtuous — the 
best  people  are  the  worst,  in  some  things,  John, 
never  forget  that.  It  will  be  useful  to  remember  it 
And  the  worst  are  nearly  as  good  as  the  best — come 
into  the  office  when  that  Slattery  person  comes  in 
the  morning,  and  you'll  see  what  I  mean.  I'll  give 
you  some  papers  to  draw  for  her." 

The  Slattery  person  swept  into  the  private  office 
with  a  rustle  of  stiffest  silks,  reminding  the  youth 
of  the  corn-husks  at  home  in  shucking-time,  leaving 
behind  her  a  whiff  of  all  the  Orient.  John  Smith 
walked  into  her  presence,  palpitating  as  at  the  ap- 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  259 

proach  to  something  terrible  and  daunting  and  mys- 
tically fateful  to  such  as  himself — as  a  sailor  might 
draw  warily  near  the  black  magnetic  rocks,  which, 
approached  too  closely,  would  'draw  the  very  nails 
from  his  ship  and  dissolve  his  craft  in  the  billows. 
When  Judge  Thornton  remarked  by  way  of  left- 
handed  introduction  that  Mr.  Smith  would  draw 
the  papers,  the  woman  paid  John  no  attention  other 
than  to  bow  and  look  straight  before  her.  The  youth 
felt  conscious  of  the  same  shuddering  admiration  for 
her  that  he  might  have  felt  for  some  gaudy,  bright- 
eyed  serpent. 

"It's  a  simple  matter,  I  guess,"  she  said.  "I  want 
to  make  over  some  property  so  Abner  Gibbs  of 
Bloomington  will  get  fifty  dollars  sure  every  month 
*as  long  as  he  lives." 

"Not  so  very  simple,"  said  the  judge,  "but  quite 
possible.  But  why  don't  you  remit  it  to  him  your- 
self?" 

"I  want  to  cinch  it  while  I've  the  money.  You  see, 
it's  this  way.  In — in  my — business" — she  looked 
into  John  Smith's  girlish  eyes  and  hesitated — 
"everything  is  uncertain.  It's  a  feast  or  a  famine. 
A  wave  of  reform  may  strike  the  town  to-morrow, 
and  the  lid  goes  on.  The  protection  you  pay  for 


260  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

may  be  taken  from  you  next  week.  You've  no 
rights.  You  ain't  human.  So  I  fix  the  fifty  a  month 
for  the  old  man  while  I  can,  see?" 

"Gibbs— Gibbs!"  said  the  judge.  "Relation  of 
yours?" 

"In  a  way.  Does  it  make  any  difference  ?" 

"It  goes  to  the  consideration,"  said  the  lawyer. 
"Love  and  affection,  you  know." 

"Well,"  said  the  Slattery  person,  "his  son  was  my 
solid  man — my  side-partner — my  husband.  The  last 
thing  he  said  when  he  got  his  was,  'Blanche,  old  girl, 
take  care  of  dad.  You  know  his  weakness.  Don't 
let  him  starve!'  And  I  ain't  going  to!" 

"His  weakness?"  queried  the  judge.  "What  did 
he  mean?" 

"Drink,"  said  the  Slattery  person.  "It's  in  the 
blood.  But  he  can't  last  long — and  he's  Jim's  fa- 
ther!" 

She  looked  out  of  the  window  and  dabbed  with 
a  lace  handkerchief  at  her  bright  eyes,  which  she 
dared  not  wipe  for  fear  of  ruin  to  the  applique  com- 
plexion. Suddenly  she  had,  to  the  mind  of  the  sus- 
ceptible John  Smith,  become  a  woman,  with  a  wom- 
an's weakness  and  yearning  over  the  departed  Jim — 
of  the  blackness  of  whose  life  John  had  no  means 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  261 

of  taking  the  measure.  He  felt  all  at  once  that  this 
person  had  shown  feelings  so  like  those  he  would 
have  expected  from  his  mother  that  it  startled  him. 

"Oh,  we're  all  alike!"  said  the  judge  when  she 
had  gone.  "These  things  are  worth  the  lawyer's 
study.  Human  nature — human  nature!  We  must 
get  above  it  and  study  it!  Just  ponder  on  the  con- 
tradictions in  the  bases  of  life  involved  in  this  Slat- 
tery  person  and  Mrs.  Brunson's  feeling  toward  Lear. 
Here's  a  woman,  that  no  one  at  the  circle  last  night 
would  touch  with  anything  shorter  than  a  ten-foot 
pole  or  lighter  than  a  club,  who  is  actually  carrying 
out  toward  a  drunkard  in  Bloomington  a  policy  of 
love  and  humanity  that  would  be  beyond  Mrs.  Brun- 
son.  She'd  say :  'Let  him  behave  the  way  I  say,  and 
I'll  take  him  in !'  Any  of  us  moral  folks  would  do 
the  same,  too.  No  knights  and  roistering  for  us! 
Quite  a  study — eh,  John?" 

John  sat  silent,  far  afloat  from  his  moorings.  The 
judge  was  too  deep,  too  ethically  acute  for  him. 
Perhaps  by  long  association  he,  John  Smith,  might 
grow  in  moral  height  and  mental  grasp,  so  as  to — 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Judge  Thornton,  "which  is 
the  worse — sale  of  the  body,  or  barter  of  the  soul. 
I  don't  mean  that  the  body  can  be  sold  without  the 


262  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

soul  going  with  it,  though  Epictetus  seems  a  case  in 
point  in  favor  of  the  separable-transaction  theory; 
but  if  it  can,  sale  of  the  soul  would  seem  the  more 
ruinous.  I — " 

Judge  Thornton  was  interrupted  by  the  opening 
of  the  office  door  and  the  entrance  of  a  brisk,  ca- 
pable-looking, Vandyke-bearded  man  who  carried  a 
cane  and  bore  himself  with  an  ease  that  seemed 
somehow  at  war  with  something  of  restraint — the 
ease  on  the  surface,  the  embarrassment  underneath, 
like  a  dead  swell  coming  in  against  the  breeze. 
There  was  a  triumphant  gleam  in  Judge  Thornton's 
eyes,  filmed  at  once  with  self-possession  and  in- 
scrutable calm.  "Come  in,  Mr.  Avery,"  he  said. 

"Just  a  word  with  you/'  said  Mr.  Avery,  "in — " 

"Certainly!"  said  the  judge.  "Right  in  here,  Mr. 
Avery." 

Mr.  Avery  passed  into  the  private  office.  Judge 
Thornton  remained  for  a  word  with  John  Smith. 

"This  is  the  vice-president  of  the  gas  company," 
he  said.  "Don't  mention  his  call  and  don't  allow  me 
to  be  disturbed." 

John  Smith  was  triumphant.  The  very  might  of 
Thornton's  ability  and  power  had  brought  the  gas 
company  to  its  knees!  This  crucial  stage  of  the 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  263 

gas  fight  thrust  entirely  out  of  his  mind  the  deep 
moral  and  ethical  consideration  of  the  relations  of 
the  Slattery  person  to  the  discussion  of  Lear. 
The  law,  as  of  old,  was  a  great  profession.  Would 
any  of  the  Boone  County  folk  be  able  to  believe 
that  he,  John  Smith,  was  so  near  the  heart  of  big 
things  as  to  sit  here  while  Judge  Thornton  won  this 
great  bloodless  victory  for  the  people  ? 

Mr.  Avery  came  out,  cordially  smiling  upon  Judge 
Thornton,  who  looked  triumphant,  pleased,  uplifted. 
For  a  man  who  had  just  been  throttled,  Mr.  Avery 
looked  in  rather  good  form. 

"I'll  send  all  the  papers  over  to  you,  Judge/'  he 
said.  "And  I'm  mighty  glad  we've  got  together.  It 
ought  to  have  been  done  before ;  but  you  know  how 
it  is  when  you  leave  things  to  subordinates." 

"Oh,  well,"  said  the  judge.  "Of  course  I'm  very 
glad ;  but  the  subordinates  may  have  done  the  right 
thing.  Maxwell  and  Wilson  are  good  men,  but  local 
conditions  may — " 

They  went  out  into  the  anteroom,  and  John 
Smith  heard  them  go  away  together.  He  felt  dis- 
quieted. The  appearances  were  so  different  from 
what  he  had  expected.  Not  that  it  was  in  the  least 
degree  his  affair,  but — 


264  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

The  newsboy  threw  in  the  evening  paper.  John 
Smith  looked  at  once  for  the  account  of  the  gas  fight. 

"The  anti-ordinance  forces  make  no  secret  of  their 
regret  that  Judge  Thornton  has  seen  fit  to  withdraw 
his  promise  to  address  the  mass-meeting  on  Tues- 
day. Late  this  afternoon  he  told  a  News  representa- 
tive that  he  would  not  attend,  and  that  in  his 
opinion  a  study  of  the  gas  question  will  convince 
any  business  man  that  the  illuminant  can  not  be 
delivered  at  the  meter  at  anything  short  of  the  rate 
now  paid  here.  This  is  regarded  by  some  as  a  re- 
versal of  Judge  Thornton's  position ;  but,  as  a  matter 
of  fact,  in  all  his  public  utterances  the  judge  has 
suspended  judgment  on  the  merits  of  the  question. 
The  outlook  for  a  successful  movement  can  not  be 
regarded  as  bright  to-day." 

John  Smith  was  looking  at  the  paper  as  though  it 
were  some  published  blasphemy,  some  unspeakable 
profanation  of  all  things  good  and  holy,  when  Judge 
Thornton  returned,  whistling  like  a  man  at  peace 
with  the  world  and  himself.  The  judge  went  into 
his  private  office  and  came  out  with  a  thin  slip  of 
paper  folded  in  the  palm  of  one  smooth,  strong 
hand. 

"Too  bad  you're  not  a  full-fledged  lawyer,  John, 
instead  of  a  beginner.  I  could  use  you  a  good  deal. 
My  practice  is  getting  more  extensive.  I've  just  been 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  265 

retained  as  the  general  counsel  of  the  gas  company. 
Oh,  all  you  have  to  do  is  to  wait  and  make  yourself 
indispensable !  You'll  be  getting  plums  like  that  one 
of  these  days.  It's  a  great  game!  Good  night." 

Good  night,  indeed!  There  was  no  thunder  and 
lightning  like  that  on  the  heath  when  Lear  went 
mad ;  but,  to  a  boy  whose  world  had  suddenly  tum- 
bled into  pieces,  the  snow  which  drove  softly  against 
his  cheek  and  slithered  hissingly  along  the  asphalt 
was  a  natural  feature  to  dwell  in  his  memory  for 
ever.  He  wandered  out  through  the  area  of  high 
buildings,  past  the  residences,  to  where  the  snow  rat- 
tled on  the  corn-husks  that  reminded  him  of  the 
Slattery  person's  silks.  He  had  confused  visions  of 
Mrs.  Brunson,  dressed  in  Judge  Thornton's  decent 
high  hat,  flaunting  gaudy  garments  and  painting  her 
face  for  indescribable  drinking-bouts.  He  came  back 
past  the  Thornton  home,  where  he  paused  in  the 
gray  dawn  and  looked  at  one  lace-curtained  window 
to  murmur  "Good-by."  At  the  door  of  the  office- 
building  where  his  days  had  been  spent  since  his 
coming  to  town,  he  went  in  from  force  of  habit  and 
pushed  the  button  for  the  elevator.  No  sound  re- 
warded the  effort,  and  he  pushed  again  impatiently. 
Then  he  laughed  as  he  noted  the  elevator-cages 


266  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

about  him,  all  shut  down,  all  empty,  like  cells  from 
which  the  lunatic  occupants  had  escaped.  A  woman 
who  had  begun  scrubbing  the  marble  steps  looked 
at  him  curiously  as  his  mirthless  laugh  sounded 
through  the  empty  building. 

John  Smith  climbed  flight  after  flight,  opened  the 
door  which  would  never  have  "Thornton  &  Smith'* 
on  it,  sat  down  at  his  desk  and  wrote  : 

"DEAR  FATHER:  I  am  quite  well.  Everything 
looks  favorable  for  my  studies.  Judge  Thornton 
says  he  wants  to  do  all  he  can  for  me,  and  I  think 
he  does ;  but  I  guess  I  am  not  cut  out  for  a  lawyer. 
It  isn't  quite  what  I  thought  it  was.  If  you  are  still 
willing  to  send  me  to  the  state  college  and  give  me 
that  agricultural  course,  I  believe  I'll  go.  There's 
something  about  the  farm  that's  always  there;  and 
you  know  it's  there.  I'll  be  home  as  soon  as  I  can 
pack  up. 

"Your  loving  son, 

"JOHN  SMITH." 

The  party  sat  for  a  few  moments  motionless,  as 
the  Artist's  voice  became  silent.  Then  the  Colonel 
arose,  bade  them  good  night,  and  took  the  Artist's 
hand. 

"As  a  legal  Slattery  person,"  said  he,  "I  thank 
you  for  the  tale  of  the  young  fool.  Good  night!" 


CHAPTER  XI 

'  1  "HE  traveler  who  is  wise,  going  from  Grand 
Canon  Hotel  to  Tower  Falls,  will  pass  over 
Mount  Washburn — and  he  starts  early.  He  starts 
early  that  he  may  take  with  him  the  memory  of  the 
Upper  and  Lower  Falls  wrapped  in  the  mist  which 
they  and  night  have  wrought  together,  and  which 
the  nocturnal  calm  has  perhaps  left  hanging  wraith- 
like  over  the  tremendous  slot  so  filled  with  the  roar 
of  many  waters.  And  he  starts  early,  too,  that  he 
may  make  the  ten-mile  climb  to  Washburn's  summit 
before  the  day-wind  rises  and  sweeps  the  mountain's 
head  with  that  gale  which  so  tears  the  trees  and 
twists  them  into  a  permanent  declination,  like  vege- 
table dipping  needles. 

The  Seven  Wonderers  pursued  the  way  of  wis- 
dom, and  so  they  startled  deer  and  elk  from  their 
night  beds  along  the  road  to  Cascade  Creek;  and 
began  the  climb  of  Washburn  before  sunrise.  The 
tops  of  Dunraven  and  Hedges  Peaks  were  rosy  with 

267 


268  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

morning  when  the  rested  cayuses  pulled  over  the 
first  rugged  spurs  of  these  peaks,  and  it  was  morn- 
ing with  the  perfect  trees,  that  stood  like  spires 
about  them,  morning  with  the  columbine  and  the 
larkspur,  the  forget-me-nots  and  the  asters,  the  flea- 
bane  and  the  paint-brush — and  all  the  wild  flowers 
that  enameled  the  wayside.  For  many  days  they 
had  been  in  the  heart  of  the  Rockies,  and  yet  the 
scenery  had  not  seemed  like  real  mountain  scenery. 
Here  for  the  first  time,  it  became  alpine.  They 
threaded  Dunraven  Pass  in  the  early  forenoon,  and 
took  the  high  road  straight  over  the  summit.  The 
team  leaned  hard  into  the  squeaking  collars,  and 
frequent  stops  that  the  horses  might  breathe  made 
the  tourists  glad.  Every  stop  and  every  turn  brought 
the  eye  new  delights.  The  great  lake  came  into  view 
again,  like  a  distant  splash  of  silver;  and  as  if  for 
another  good-by,  away  off  to  the  south  stood  Mount 
Sheridan,  with  the  three  Tetons  to  the  right  of  it, 
solemnly  overlooking  the  Park  of  which  they  are  a 
part  to  the  eye  only. 

"Oh!  Oh!"  said  the  Bride,  gasping.  "There's  the 
Grand  Canon,  like  a  crack  in  the  floor!" 

"And,"  said  the  Poet,  "there's  the  ghost  of  wasted 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  269 

power,  mistily  brooding  over  the  falls,  just  as  when 
we  left." 

"Ghost  of  wasted  power!"  repeated  the  Groom. 
"That's  not  half  bad,  Poet." 

Another  turn,  and  the  Absorakas  notched  the  east- 
ern horizon ;  and  the  whole  huge  valley,  with  titanic 
slopes  as  its  farther  wall,  and  the  zigzag  trench  of 
the  canon  as  its  central  drain,  lay  at  their  feet.  The 
air  was  cooler,  now,  and  the  breath  came  short,  as 
lungs  labored  for  more  of  the  rare  atmosphere.  At 
their  feet  lay  green  meadows  and  open  parks,  on 
which  they  might  have  expected  to  see  grazing  herds 
of  shaggy  black  Highland  cattle. 

Again  a  few  starts  and  stops,  and  as  if  turned 
into  view  by  machinery,  came  the  northwest  quarter 
of  the  Park,  with  all  the  country  they  had  traversed 
— Electric  Peak,  in  whose  shadow  they  had  entered 
upon  their  journey,  Sepulcher  Mountain,  with  its 
grave  and  the  monuments  at  head  and  foot  no  longer 
to  be  made  out,  the  valley  of  Carnelian  Creek  at 
their  feet,  and  beyond  it  the  jagged  range,  of  which 
Prospect,  Folsom  and  Storm  Peaks  are  the  culmi- 
nations. 

"That's  something  you  don't  always  see,"  said 


270  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

Aconite,  pointing  to  something  away  off  to  the 
northwest.  "That  thing  is  the  Devil's  Slide." 

"And  we  saw  his  Inkstand  yesterday/'  said  the 
Hired  Man.  "He  seems  to've  preempted  a  lot  of 
this  here  region." 

"Well,"  remarked  the  Colonel  sardonically,  "isn't 
the  Park  dedicated  to  the  enjoyment,  as  well  as  the 
benefit  of  the  people?" 

"It  started  as  'Colter's  Hell/ "  suggested  the 
Groom. 

"In  Old  Jim  Bridger's  time,"  said  Aconite,  "it 
rained  fire  up  here  in  these  hills  one  year." 

"I  don't  doubt  it,"  assented  the  Artist.  "And 
we've  either  seen  or  are  promised  a  view  of  Hell 
Roaring  Creek,  Hell  Broth  Springs,  Hell's  Half 
Acre,  Satan's  Arbor,  and  a  lot  of  other  infernal  real 
estate." 

"It's  heavenly  up  here!"  said  the  Bride. 

Once  at  the  summit  the  Park  lay  under  their  eyes 
like  a  map — all  these  and  a  thousand  other  features 
to  be  taken  in  by  merely  turning  about  The  land 
was  sown  with  every  variety  of  all  that  is  wild  and 
beautiful  and  strange;  the  sky  was  filled  with  peaks. 
Here  they  had  mountains  to  spare.  They  looked, 
and  looked,  and  grew  tired  of  looking — and  then 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  271 

gazed  again.  The  wind  blew  up  and  whipped  their 
faces ;  and  the  sun  was  far  past  the  meridian,  pass- 
ing south  through  the  silvery  splotch  of  Yellowstone 
Lake,  when  Aconite  literally  loaded  them  into  the 
surrey,  and  drove  down  the  mighty  flanks  of  Wash- 
burn,  northwardly,  until  he  found  a  place  where  a 
fire  could  be  builded  and  luncheon  prepared. 

"You  folks  mustn't  fergit,"  said  he,  "that  scenery 
ain't  so  fillin'  f 'r  them  as  looks  it  every  little  while, 
as  it  is  f'r  the  tenderfoot." 

The  Professor  was  evidently  pleased  when  his 
name  came  from  the  Stetson  for  the  second  time.  He 
seemed  to  have  something  on  his  mind.  Fully  a  mile 
short  of  Tower  Falls,  which  they  planned  to  visit  in 
the  early  morning,  they  camped  in  dense  forest,  with 
a  party  of  sight-seers  just  so  far  away  as  to  seem 
neighborly  without  intrenching  on  privacy. 

"This  is  the  best  camp  weVe  had,"  said  the  Bride, 
hooking  her  hands  over  her  knee,  and  gazing  into 
the  fire. 

"Sure,"  said  Billy.  "Every  camp  is  the  best  in 
life,  for  me,  honey!  Listen  to  the  Professor,  now — 
nobody  heard !" 


272  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

THE  FEDERAL  IMP  COMPANY 
THE  PROFESSOR'S  SECOND  TALE 

I  can  not  bring  myself  to  think  lightly  of  devils 
and  imps.  Neither  can  I  believe  that  the  consen- 
sus of  the  opinions  of  so  many  millions  of  mankind 
associating  eternal  punishment  with  fire  can  be  neg- 
lected by  the  student  of  ethnology  or  theology. 
These  are  filled  with  haunts  of  devils — if  the  opin- 
ions of  those  who  named  them  are  worth  anything. 
In  addition  to  those  localities  which  have  been  men- 
tioned, I  have  in  my  notes  the  following : 

The  Devil's  Frying  Pan, 
The  Devil's  Slide, 
The  Devil's  Kitchen, 
The  Devil's  Punch  Bowl, 
The  Devil's  Broiler, 
The  Devil's  Bath  Tub, 
The  Devil's  Den, 
The  Devil's  Workshop, 
The  Devil's  Stairway, 
The  Devil's  Caldron, 
The  Devil's  Well, 
The  Devil's  Elbow, 
The  Devil's  Thumb, 

and  I  know  not  how  many  of  the  members  of  His 
Satanic  Majesty — all  in  this  Park !    And  yet  we  say 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  273 

there  is  no  devil,  no  brood  of  imps  set  upon  the  cap- 
ture of  human  souls? 

I  shall  tell  you  a  story  that  seems  worth  consider- 
ing as  evidence  on  the  other  side.  It  is  the  story  of 
something  that  occurred  when  I  was  journeying  by 
a  branch  railway  to  take  the  main  line  to  Washing- 
ton, after  a  visit  to  the  Boggses'  ancestral  farm  in 
Pennsylvania.  I  had  been  at  Boston  as  an  attendant 
upon  the  sessions  of  the  National  Teachers'  Asso- 
ciation; with  what  recognition  of  my  own  small 
ability  as  an  educator  I  have  already  mentioned.  I 
boarded  an  old-fashioned,  branch-line  sleeping-car, 
and  there  met  the  being  whose  utterances  and  ac- 
tions have  so  impressed  me  that  I  shall  never  for- 
get them,  never.  I  feel  that  this  creature,  so  casually 
met,  may  be  one  of  the  actors  in  a  series  of  events 
of  the  most  appalling  character,  and  cosmic  scope. 

When  the  porter  came  snooping  about  as  if  de- 
siring to  make  up  my  berth,  I  went  into  the  smoking 
compartment.  I  do  not  smoke;  but  it  was  the  only 
place  to  go.  I  found  there  a  person  of  striking  ap- 
pearance who  told  me  the  most  remarkable  story  I 
ever  heard  in  my  life,  and  one  which  I  feel  it  my 
duty  to  make  public. 


274  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

He  had  before  him  a  bottle  of  ready -mixed  cock- 
tails, a  glass,  and  a  newspaper.  With  his  bags  and 
the  little  card  table  on  which  he  rested  his  elbows, 
he  was  occupying  most  of  the  compartment.  I 
sidled  in  hesitatingly,  in  that  unobtrusive  way  which 
I  believe  to  be  the  unfailing  mark  of  the  retiring  and 
scholastic  mind,  and  for  want  of  a  place  to  sit  down, 
I  leaned  upon  the  lavatory.  He  was  gazing  fixedly 
at  the  half -empty  bottle,  his  sweeping  black  mus- 
taches curling  back  past  his  ears,  his  huge  grizzled 
eyebrows  shot  through  with  the  gleam  of  his  eyes. 
He  looked  so  formidable  that  I  confess  I  was 
daunted,  and  should  have  escaped  to  the  vestibule; 
but  he  saw  me,  rose,  and  with  extreme  politeness 
began  tossing  aside  baggage  to  make  room. 

"I  trust,  Sir/'  said  he  with  a  capital  S,  "that  you 
will  pardon  my  occupancy  of  so  much  of  a  room  in 
which  your  right  is  equal  to  mine !  Be  seated,  I  beg 
of  you,  Sir !" 

I  sat  down;  partly  because,  when  not  aroused,  I 
am  of  a  submissive  temperament;  and  partly  because 
he  had  thrown  the  table  and  grips  across  the  door. 
"Don't  mention  it,"  said  I.   "Thank  you." 
"Permit  me,  Sir,"  said  he,  "to  offer  you  a  drink." 
"I  hope  you  will  excuse  me,"    I   replied,   now 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  275 

slightly  roused,  for  I  abhor  alcohol  and  its  use.  "I 
never  drink!" 

"It  is  creditable  to  any  man,  Sir,"  said  he,  "to 
carry  around  with  him  a  correct  estimate  of  his 
weaknesses/' 

This  really  aroused  in  me  that  indignation  which 
sometimes  renders  me  almost  terrible ;  but  his  fixed 
and  glittering  gaze  seemed  to  hold  me  back  from 
making  the  protest  which  rose  to  my  lips. 

"Permit  me,  Sir,"  said  he,  "to  offer  you  a  cigar." 

It  was  a  strong-looking  weed ;  but  although  I  am 
not  a  smoker,  I  took  and  lighted  it.  He  resumed  his 
attention  to  his  bottle  and  paper. 

"Will  you  be  so  kind,"  said  he,  breaking  silence, 
"as  to  read  that  item  as  it  appears  to  you?" 

"  'Federal  Improvement  Company/ '  I  read. 
"  'Organized  under  the  laws  of  New  Jersey,  on 
January  4th,  with  a  capital  of  $1,000,000.  Charter 
powers  very  broad,  taking  in  almost  every  field  of 
business.  The  incorporators  are  understood  to  be 
New  York  men/  " 

"  'Imp/  "  said  he,  "isn't  it?  not  'Improvement/  " 

"I  take  it,  sir,"  said  I,  "that  the  omission  of  the 
period  is  a  printer's  error,  and  that  i-m-p  means  'Im- 
provement/ " 


276  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

He  leaned  forward,  grasped  my  wrist  and  peered 
like  a  hypnotist  into  my  face. 

"Just  as  badly  mistaken,"  said  he,  "as  if  you  had 
lost — as  could  be!  It  means  'Imp'  just  as  it  says 
'Imp.5  Have  another  drink !" 

This  time  I  really  did  not  feel  free  to  refuse  him. 
He  seemed  greatly  pleased  at  my  tasting. 

"Sit  still,"  said  he,  "and  I'll  tell  you  the  con- 
demdest  story  you  ever  heard.  That  corporation 
means  that  we  are  now  entering  a  governmental  and 
sociological  area  of  low  pressure  that  will  make  the 
French  Revolution  look  like  a  cipher  with  the  rim 
rubbed  out.  In  the  end  you'll  be  apt  to  have  clearer 
views  as  to  whether  or  not  'i-m-p'  spells  'improve- 
ment'!" 

This  he  seemed  to  consider  a  very  clever  play 
upon  words,  and  he  sat  for  some  time,  laughing  in 
the  manner  adopted  by  the  stage  villain  in  his  mo- 
ments of  solitude.  His  Mephistophelean  behavior, 
or  something,  made  me  giddy.  His  manner  was 
quite  calm,  however,  and  after  a  while  we  lapsed 
back  into  the  commonplace. 

"Ever  read  a  story,"  said  he,  "named  The  Bottle 
Imp?" 

"Stevenson's  Bottle  Imp?"  I  exclaimed,  glad  to 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  277 

find  a  topic  of  common  interest,  and  feeling  that  it 
could  not  be  a  dangerous  thing  to  be  shut  into  the 
same  smoking  compartment  with  any  man  who  loved 
such  things,  no  matter  how  Captain-Kiddish  he 
might  appear.  "Why,  yes,  I  have  often  read  it.  I 
am  a  teacher  of  literature  and  an  admirer  of  Steven- 
son. He  possesses — " 

"Who?  Adlai?"hesaid.   "Did  he  ever  have  it ?" 

"I  mean  Robert  Louis/'  said  I.  "He  wrote  it,  you 
know." 

"Oh !"  said  my  companion  meditatively,  "he  did, 
did  he  ?  Wrote  it,  eh  ?  It's  as  likely  as  not  he  did — - 
I  know  A dlai.  Met  him  once,  when  I  was  putting  a 
bill  through  down  at  Springfield:  nice  man!  Well 
about  this  Bottle  Imp.  You  know  the  story  tells 
how  he  was  shut  up  in  a  bottle — the  Imp  was — and 
whoever  owned  it  could  have  anything  he  ordered, 
just  like  the  fellow  with  the  lamp — " 

"Except  long  life!"  said  I,  venturing  to  interrupt. 

"Of  course,  not  that!"  replied  my  strange  travel- 
ing companion.  "If  the  thing  had  been  used  to  pro- 
long life,  where  would  the  Imp  come  in?  His  side 
of  the  deal  was  to  get  a  soul  to  torture.  He  couldn't 
be  asked  to  give  'em  length  of  days,  you  understand. 
It  couldn't  be  expected." 


278  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

I  had  to  admit  that,  from  the  Imp's  standpoint, 
there  was  much  force  in  this  remark. 

"And  that  other  clause  in  the  contract  that  the 
owner  could  sell  it,"  he  went  on.  "That  had  to  be 
in,  or  the  Imp  never  could  have  found  a  man  sucker 
enough  to  take  the  Bottle  in  the  first  place." 

The  cases  of  Faust,  and  the  man  who  had  the 
Wild  Ass's  Skin  seemed  to  me  authorities  against 
this  statement;  but  I  allowed  the  error  to  pass  un- 
corrected. 

"On  the  other  hand,"  he  went  on,  "it  was  nothing 
more  than  fair  to  have  that  other  clause  in,  pro- 
viding that  every  seller  must  take  less  for  it  than  he 
gave.  Otherwise  they'd  have  kept  transferring  it 
just  before  the  owner  croaked,  and  the  Imp  would 
never  have  got  his  victim.  But  with  that  rule  in 
force  the  price  just  had  to  get  down  so  low  some- 
time that  it  couldn't  get  any  lower,  and  the  Imp 
would  get  his  quid  pro  quo." 

"You  speak,"  said  I  indignantly,  for  it  horrified 
me  to  hear  the  loss  of  a  soul  spoken  of  in  this  light 
manner;  "you  speak  like  a  veritable  devil's  advo- 
cate!" 

"When  I've  finished  telling  you  of  this  Federal 
Imp  Company  that's  just  been  chartered,"  said  he, 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  279 

"you'll  have  to  admit  that  there's  at  least  one  devil 
that's  in  need  of  the  best  advocate  that  money '11 
hire!" 

Here  he  gave  one  of  his  sardonic  chuckles,  long- 
continued  and  rumbling,  and  peered  into  the  bottle 
of  cocktails,  as  if  the  prospective  client  of  the  ad- 
vocate referred  to  had  been  confined  there. 

"When  it  doesn't  cost  anything,"  he  added, 
"there's  no  harm  in  being  fair,  even  with  an  Imp/' 

I  failed  to  come  to  the  defense  of  my  position,  and 
he  went  on. 

"Well,"  said  he,  "do  you  remember  the  Bottle 
Imp's  history  that  this  man  Stevenson  gives  us? 
Caesar  had  it  once,  and  wished  himself  clear  up  to 
the  head  of  the  Roman  Empire.  Charlemagne,  Na- 
poleon, and  a  good  many  of  the  fellows  who  had 
everything  coming  their  way,  owed  their  successes 
to  the  Bottle  Imp,  and  their  failures  to  selling  out 
too  soon :  got  scared  when  they  got  a  headache,  or 
on  the  eve  of  battle,  or  something  like  that.  It  was 
owned  in  South  Africa,  and  Barney  Barnato  and 
Cecil  Rhodes  both  had  it.  That  accounts  for  the  way 
they  got  up  in  the  world.  Then  the  Bottle  and  Imp 
went  to  the  Nob  Hill  millionaire  who  bought  it  for 
eighty  dollars  and  sold  it  to  Keawe  the  Kanaka  for 


280  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

fifty.  The  price  was  getting  dangerously  low,  now, 
and  Keawe  was  mighty  glad  when  he  had  wished 
himself  into  a  fortune  and  got  rid  of  the  thing. 
Then,  just  as  he  was  about  to  get  married,  he  dis- 
covered that  he  had  leprosy,  hunted  up  the  Bottle, 
which  he  found  in  the  possession  of  a  fellow  who 
had  all  colors  of  money  and  insomnia,  both  of  which 
he  had  acquired  by  purchasing  the  Bottle  Imp  for 
two  cents,  you  remember,  and  was  out  looking  for 
a  transferee,  and  about  on  the  verge  of  nervous 
prostration  because  he  couldn't  find  one, — not  at  that 
price !  Keawe  became  so  desperate  from  the  danger 
of  going  to  the  leper  colony  and  the  loss  of  his 
sweetheart,  that  he  bought  the  Bottle  for  a  cent,  in 
the  face  of  the  fact  that,  so  far  as  he  knew,  a  cent 
was  the  smallest  coin  in  the  world,  and  the  bargain, 
accordingly,  cinched  him  as  the  Imp's  peculiar  prop- 
erty, for  all  eternity.  I'll  be — hanged — if  I  know 
whether  to  despise  him  for  his  foolishness  or  to  ad- 
mire him  for  his  sand!" 

"You  recall,"  said  I,  "that  his  wife  directed  his 
attention  to  the  centime — " 

"Yes,"  said  he,  "she  put  him  on.  And  they  threw 
away  one  transfer  by  placing  it  on  the  market  at 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  281 

four  centimes.  They  might  just  as  well  have  started 
it  at  five." 

"I  don't  see  that,"  said  I. 

"Because  you  haven't  figured  on  it,"  said  he. 
"You  haven't  been  circulating  in  Imp  circles  lately, 
as  I  have,  where  these  things  are  discussed.  Listen ! 
A  centime  is  the  hundredth  part  of  a  franc,  and  a 
franc  is  about  nineteen  cents.  A  cent,  therefore,  is 
a  fraction  more  than  five  centimes.  But  they  started 
it  at  four,  the  chocolate-colored  idiots,  after  getting 
rid  of  their  leprosy!  When  I  think  how  that  Bottle 
Imp  has  been  mismanaged,  I  am  driven — " 

He  illustrated  that  to  which  he  was  driven,  by  a 
gesture  with  the  bottle  on  the  table.  He  coughed, 
and  took  up  his  resumt  of  the  story. 

"Let  that  pass.  They  put  it  up  at  four  centimes, 
and  without  Keawe's  knowledge  that  she  had  any- 
thing to  do  with  it,  Keawe's  wife  got  an  old  man  to 
buy  it,  and  she  took  it  off  his  hands  at  three.  The 
Kanaka  soon  found  out  that  he  was  now  carrying 
his  eternal  damnation  in  his  wife's  name,  and  he 
procured  an  old  skipper  or  mate,  or  some  such  fellow 
in  a  state  of  intoxication,  to  buy  it  of  her  for  two, 
on  the  agreement  that  he  would  take  it  again  for 


282  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

one.  Here  they  were,  frittering  away  untold  for- 
tunes, each  trying  to  go  to  perdition  to  save  the  other 
— it  makes  me  tired !  But  the  old  bos'n  or  whatever 
he  was,  said  he  was  going,  you  know  where,  any- 
how, and  figured  that  the  Bottle  was  a  good  thing 
to  take  with  him,  and  kept  it.  And  there's  where  the 
Kanakas  got  out  of  a  mighty  tight  place — " 

"And  the  Bottle  disappeared  and  passed  into  his- 
tory !"  I  broke  in.  I  was  really  absorbed  in  the  con- 
versation, in  spite  of  a  slight  vertigo,  now  that  we 
had  got  into  the  field  of  literature  where  I  felt  at 
home. 

"Passed  into — nothing!"  he  snorted.  "Passed  into 
the  state  of  being  the  Whole  Thing!  Became  It! 
Went  on  the  road  to  the  possession  of  the  Federal 
Imp  Company  as  the  sole  asset  of  the  corporation. 
Folks'll  see  now  pretty  quick,  whether  it  passed  into 
history  or  not!  Yes,  I  should  say  so!" 

"Who's  got  it  now  ?"  I  whispered.  I  was  so  ex- 
cited that  I  found  myself  sitting  across  the  table, 
and  us  mingling  our  breaths  like  true  conspirators. 
He  had  a  good  working  majority  in  the  breaths, 
however. 

"Who's  the  Charlemagne,  the  J.  Caesar,  the  Na- 
poleon of  the  present  day?"  he  whispered  in  reply, 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  283 

after  looking  furtively  over  his  shoulder.  "It  don't 
need  a  Sherlock  Holmes  to  tell  that,  does  it?" 

"Not,"  said  I,  "not  J.  P.—" 

"No,"  said  he,  "It's  John  D.— " 

But  before  he  finished  the  name  he  crept  to  the 
door  and  peered  down  the  aisle,  and  then  whispered 
it  in  my  ear  so  sibilantly  that  I  felt  for  a  minute  as 
I  used  to  do  when  I  got  water  in  my  ear  when  swim- 
ming. But  I  noticed  it  very  little  in  my  astonish- 
ment at  the  fact  he  had  imparted  to  me.  I  felt  that 
I  was  pale.  He  rose  again  and  prowled  about  as  if 
for  eavesdroppers.  I  felt  myself  a  Guy  Fawkes,  an 
Aaron  Burr,  an — well,  anything  covert  and  dan- 
gerous. 

"He  bought  this  Bottle  Imp,"  my  companion  went 
on,  resuming  his  seat,  "of  the  old  sailing-master,  or 
whatever  he  was — the  man  with  the  downward  tend- 
ency and  the  jag.  What  J.  D.  wanted  was  power, 
just  as  Csesar  and  Napoleon  wanted  it  in  their  times. 
But  the  same  kind  of  power  wouldn't  do.  Armies 
were  the  tools  of  nations  then;  now  they  are  the 
playthings.  Now  nations  are  the  tools  of  money, 
and  wealth  runs  the  machine.  This  emperor  of  ours 
chose  between  having  the  colors  dip  as  he  went  by, 
and  owning  the  fellows  that  made  'em  dip.  He  gave 


284  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

the  grand-stand  the  go-by,  and  took  the  job  of  being 
the  one  to  pull  the  string  that  turned  on  the  current 
that  moved  the  ruling  force  that  controlled  the  power 
back  of  the  power  behind  the  throne.  D'ye  under- 
stand?" 

"It's  a  little  complex/'  said  I,  "the  way  you  state 
it,  but—" 

"It'll  all  be  clear  in  the  morning,"  he  said.  "Any- 
way, that's  what  he  chose.  And  what  is  he?  The 
Emperor  of  Coin.  He  was  a  modest  business  man  a 
few  years  ago.  Suddenly  the  wealth  of  a  continent 
began  flowing  into  his  control.  It  rolled  in  and  rolled 
in,  every  coin  making  him  stronger  and  stronger, 
until  now  the  business  of  the  world  takes  out  insur- 
ance policies  on  his  life  and  scans  the  reports  of  his 
health  as  if  the  very  basis  of  society  were  John  D. 
You-Know-Who.  Emperors  court  his  favor,  and 
the  financial  world  shakes  when  he  walks.  You  don't 
think  for  a  minute  that  this  could  be  done  by  any 
natural  means,  do  you?" 

"But  the  price  of  the  bottle  was  one  centime!" 
said  I,  my  altruism  coming  uppermost  once  more. 
"One  centime:  and  he  is  no  longer  young!" 

"Exactly,"  he  answered,  "and  he's  got  to  sell  it, 
or  go  to —  Well,  he's  just  about  got  to  sell  it !" 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  285 

"But  how?"  I  queried.  "What  coin  is  there 
smaller  than  a  centime — what  he  paid?" 

"All  been  figured  out,"  said  he  airily.  "Who 
solved  the  puzzle  I  don't  know;  but  I  guess  it  was 
Senator  Depew.  Know  what  a  mill  is?" 

"A  mill?  Yes,"  said  I.  "A  factory?  A  pugilistic 
encounter?  A  money  of  account?" 

"Yes,"  said  he,  "a  'money  of  account.'  Never 
coined.  One-tenth  of  a  cent.  One-half  a  centime! 
Have  you  heard  of  Senator  Aldrich's  currency  bill, 
S.  F.  41 144?  It's  got  a  clause  in  it  providing  for  the 
coinage  of  the  mill.  And  there's  where  I  come  in. 
I'm  an  unelected  legislator — third  house,  you  know. 
Let  the  constructive  statesman  bring  in  their  little 
bills.  I'm  satisfied  to  put  'em  through!  S.  F.  41144 
is  going  to  be  put  through,  and  old  J.  D.'ll  sell  his 
Bottle,  Imp  and  all.  Price,  one  mill.  When  this  grip 
epidemic  started  in,  he  got  a  touch  of  it,  and  I'll  state 
that  a  sick  man  feels  a  little  nervous  with  that  Imp 
in  stock.  So  they  wired  for  me.  It's  going  to  be  a 
fight  all  right!" 

"Why,  who  will  oppose  the  bill?"  said  I.  "No  one 
will  know  its  object." 

"Lots  of  folks  will  oppose  it,"  said  he.  "Every 
association  of  clergymen  in  the  country  is  liable  to 


286  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

turn  up  fighting  it  tooth  and  nail.  There  are  too 
many  small  coins  now  for  the  interests  of  the  people 
who  depend  on  contribution  boxes.  The  Sunday- 
schools  will  all  be  against  it.  And  the  street-car 
companies  won't  want  the  cent  subdivided.  Then 
it'll  be  hard  to  convince  Joe  Cannon;  he's  always 
looking  for  a  nigger  in  the  fence,  and  there  is  one 
here,  you  understand.  But  the  mill's  going  to  be 
coined,  all  the  same!" 

"But,"  said  I,  "who  will  buy  the  diabolical  thing 
for  a  mill?  If  Keawe  and  his  wife  had  such  trouble 
selling  it  for  a  centime,  it  will  be  impossible  to  dis- 
pose of  it  for  a  mill,  absolutely  impossible!  It's  the 
irreducible  minimum  1" 

"I  take  it,  Sir,"  said  he,  with  a  recurrence  of  the 
capital  S,  "that  you  are  not  engaged  in  what  Senator 
Lodge  in  our  conference  last  night  called  'hot 
finance'  ?" 

"No,"  I  admitted,  for  in  spite  of  the  orthoepic 
error,  I  understood  him.  "No,  I  am  not — exactly." 

"I  inferred  as  much  from  your  remark,"  said  he. 
"When  there's  anything  to  be  done,  too  large  for 
individual  power,  or  dangerous  in  its  nature,  or,  let 
us  say,  repugnant  to  some  back-number  criminal 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  287 

law,  or,  as  in  this  case,  dangerous  to  the  individual's 
soul's  salvation,  what  do  you  do?  Why  you  organ- 
ize a  corporation,  if  you  know  your  business,  and 
turn  the  whole  thing  over  to  it — and  there  you  are. 
The  Federal  Imp  Company  will  take  over  the  Bottle 
Imp  at  the  price  of  one  mill.  Mr.  R.  won't  own  it 
any  more.  His  stock  will  be  non-assessable,  and  all 
paid  up  by  the  transfer  of  the  Imp,  and  there  can't 
be  any  liability  on  it.  He  can  retain  control  of  it  if 
he  wants  to — and  you  notice  he  generally  wants  to, 
and  can  laugh  in  the  Imp's  face.  We've  got  all  kinds 
of  legal  opinions  on  that.  And  whoever  controls 
that  company  will  rule  the  world.  That  Imp  is  the 
greatest  corporate  asset  that  ever  existed.  All  that's 
needed  is  for  the  president  of  the  corporation  to 
wish  for  anything,  or  the  board  of  directors  to  pass 
a  resolution,  and  the  thing  asked  for  comes  a-run- 
ning.  The  railways,  steamships,  banks,  factories, 
lands — everything  worth  having — are  just  as  good 
as  taken  over. 

Why  it's  the  Universal  Merger,  the  Trust  of 
Trusts!  The  stock-holders  of  the  Federal  Imp  Com- 
pany will  be  the  ruling  class  of  the  world,  a  per- 
petual aristocracy;  and  the  man  with  fifty-one  per 


288  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

cent,  of  the  stock,  or  proxies  for  it,  will  be  Em- 
peror, Czar,  Kaiser,  Everything!*' 

"But  this  is  stupendous!"  I  exclaimed:  for,  being 
a  student  of  political  economy — "economics//  they 
call  it  now — I  at  once  perceived  the  significance  of 
his  statements.  "This  is  terrible!  It  is  revolution! 
It  is  the  end  of  democracy!  Can't  it  be  stopped?" 

"M'h'm,"  said  he  quietly,  evidently  assenting  to 
my  rather  excited  statement;  and  then  in  reply  to 
my  question,  he  added  with  another  chuckle,  "Stop 
nothing!  Federal  injunction  won't  do  it:  presiden- 
tial veto  won't  do  it :  nor  calling  out  the  militia :  nor 
anything  else.  For  the  Imp  controls  the  courts,  the 
president,  and  the  army ;  and  J.  D.  R.  runs  the  Imp 
— fifty-one  per  cent,  of  the  Imp  stock!  The  social- 
ists will  go  out  campaigning  in  favor  of  the  govern- 
ment's taking  over  the  Federal  Imp  Company,  but 
the  Imp  controls  the  government — and  the  social- 
ists, too,  when  you  come  down  to  brass  nails.  Oh, 
it's  a  cinch,  a  timelock,  leadpipe  cinch !  The  stuff's 
off  with  everybody  else,  if  we  can  get  this  bill 
through !" 

I  was  shocked  into  something  like  a  cataleptic 
state,  and  sat  dazed  for  a  while.  Either  this  or  the 
strong  cigar,  or  something,  so  affected  me  that,  as 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  289 

he  passed  the  flask  to  me  for  the  fourth  time,  the 
smoking  compartment  seemed  to  swim  about  me  as 
the  train  rolled  thunderously  onward  through  the 
night.  To  steady  myself  I  gazed  fixedly  at  my  ex- 
traordinary fellow  traveler  as  he  sat,  his  now  well- 
nigh  empty  bottle  before  him,  peering  into  it  from 
time  to  time  as  if  for  some  potent  servant  of  his 
own.  Suddenly  he  leaned  back  and  laughed  more 
diabolically  than  ever. 

"Ha,  ha,  ha!"  he  roared.  "You  ought  to  have 
been  with  us  last  night  in  his  library !  Aldrich  and 
Depew  and  some  of  the  others  were  there,  and  we 
were  checking  over  our  list  of  sure  votes  in  the 
House.  The  old  man  had  the  grip,  as  I  said  a  while 
ago,  and  privately,  I'll  state  I  think  he's  scared  stiff  ; 
for  every  fifteen  minutes  we  got  a  bulletin  from  his 
doctors  and  messages  from  him  to  rush  S.  F.  41144 
to  its  passage,  regardless,  or  he'd  accept  a  bid  he'd 
got  for  the  Bottle  Imp  from  Sir  Thomas  Lipton, 
who  wants  it  for  some  crazy  scheme  regarding  lift- 
ing the  Cup.  All  the  while,  there  stood  the  Bottle 
with  the  Imp  in  it.  When  the  grip  news  was  coming 
in  there  was  nothing  doing  with  his  Impship.  But 
whenever  we  began  discussing  his  transfer  to  the 
Company,  the  way  business  picked  up  in  that  bottle 


290  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

was  a  caution!  Why,  you  could  hear  him  stabbing 
the  stopper  with  his  tail,  and  grinding  his  horns 
against  the  sides  of  the  bottle,  and  fighting  like  a 
weasel  in  a  trap,  in  such  a  rage  that  the  Bottle 
glowed  like  a  red-hot  iron.  It  was  shameful!  One 
of  the  lawyers  took  the  horrors,  and  had  to  be  taken 
home  in  a  carriage — threw  a  conniption  fit  every 
block!  Ha,  ha,  ha!  Ha,  ha,  ha!  Oh!  it  was  great 
stuff!" 

"I  don't  see—"  I  began. 

"No?  Don't  you?"  he  queried,  between  the  sa- 
tanic  chuckles.  "Well,  by  George,  the  Imp  saw,  all 
right !  He  saw  that  modern  financial  ingenuity  has 
found  a  way  to  flimflam  the  devil  himself.  He  saw, 
Sir  (here  his  voice  assumed  an  oratorical  orotund, 
and  the  capital  S  came  in  again),  that  our  corpora- 
tion lawyers  have  found  a  spoon  long  enough  so 
that  we  can  safely  sup  with  Satan !  Why,  let  me  ask 
you  once,  what  did  the  Imp  go  into  the  Bottle  deal 
for  in  the  first  place?  To  get  the  aforesaid  soul. 
You  can  see  how  he'd  feel,  now  that  the  price  is 
down  to  the  last  notch  but  one,  to  have  it  sold  to  a 
corporation,  with  no  more  soul  than  a  rabbit !  If — 
that — don't  beat  the — the  devil,  what  does  ?" 

It  all  dawned  upon  me  now.   The  reasonableness 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  291 

of  the  entire  story  appealed  to  me.  I  reached  for  the 
paper.  There  it  was:  "Federal  Imp  Company: 
Charter  powers  very  broad,  taking  in  almost  the  en- 
tire field  of  business."  I  looked  at  the  lobbyist.  He 
had  dropped  asleep  with  his  head  on  the  table  beside 
the  empty  cocktail  bottle.  Again  things  seemed  to 
swim,  and  I  lapsed  into  a  state  of  something  like 
coma,  from  which  I  was  aroused  by  some  one  shak- 
ing me  by  the  shoulder. 

"Berth's  ready,  suh,"  said  the  porter,  and  passed 
to  my  companion. 

"Hyah's  Devil's  Gulch  Sidin',  suh,"  said  he,  rous- 
ing the  slumbering  lobbyist.  "You  get  off,  hyah, 
suh!" 

He  passed  out  of  the  door  with  a  Chesterfieldian 
bow  and  good  night.  I  passed  a  sleepless  and  anx- 
ious night.  The  shock,  or  something,  made  me 
quite  ill.  I  have  not  yet  recovered  my  peace  of 
mind.  An  effort  which  I  made  to  place  the  matter 
before  Doctor  Byproduct,  the  president  of  the  uni- 
versity of  which  I  am  an  alumnus,  led  to  such  a  stern 
reproof  that  I  was  forced  to  subside.  The  doctor 
said  that  the  story  was  a  libel  upon  a  great  and  good 
man  who  had  partially  promised  the  university  an 
endowment  of  ten  millions  of  dollars.  I  am  ready, 


292  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

however,  to  appear  before  any  congressional  com- 
mittee which  may  be  appointed  to  investigate  the 
matter,  or  before  the  Interstate  Commerce  Commis- 
sion, and  to  testify  to  the  facts  as  above  written,  if 
it  costs  me  my  career. 

"By  gad,  sir!"  shouted  the  Colonel,  breaking  a 
long  silence.  "That  infernal  scheme  would  work!" 

The  party  went  one  by  one  to  their  tents.  Soon 
no  one  but  the  Colonel  and  the  Hired  Man  were  left. 

"It  sounds  to  me,"  remarked  the  Hired  Man  orac- 
ularly. 


CHAPTER  XII 

"TF  these  lovely  little  waterfalls,"  asserted  the 
-*-  Bride,  as  she  gazed  upon  the  graceful  Tower 
Falls,  "could  only  have  a  fair  chance,  they  would 
win  fame — but  they  are  overshadowed  .here — and 
they  don't  seem  to  care." 

Undine  Falls,  the  Virginia  Cascade,  Mystic  Falls, 
Kepler  Cascade  and  Crystal  Falls  were  in  the  mind 
of  the  Bride;  but  she  might  have  mentioned  many 
more,  which  in  their  incursion  into  the  Park  they 
had  not  seen. 

"This,"  said  the  Artist,  "is  no  place  to  look  at, 
and  leave — it  is  a  region  for  the  artist  to  live  in,  to 
study,  to  make  a  part  of  his  life,  and  finally,  to  un- 
derstand." 

"I  reckon,"  said  the  Hired  Man,  "that  he'd  git 
homesick  f  'r  the  corn  country  after  a  winter  or  so." 

Some  competent  judges  think  Tower  Falls  the 
most  beautiful  cascade  on  earth.  Perhaps  it  is.  Cer- 

293 


294  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

tainly  no  fault  has  ever  been  found  with  it  as  a  pic- 
ture. The  Seven  Wonderers  spent  a  day  near  their 
pretty  camp,  resting,  exploring,  and  renewing  their 
acquaintance  with  the  gorge  of  the  Yellowstone, 
and  forming  that  of  the  Needle,  slender  as  a  campa- 
nile, and  three  hundred  feet  high,  marking  the  end 
of  the  Grand  Canon.  Junction  Butte,  which  they 
crossed  the  New  Bridge  to  see,  standing  where  many 
roads  and  rivers  meet,  seemed  to  the  Bride  another 
monument  placed  there  by  the  gods  with  manifest 
intention.  Why  otherwise,  she  queried,  could  not 
the  Needle  be  anywhere  else,  just  as  well  as  at  the 
lower  end  of  the  Grand  Canon,  or  Junction  Butte, 
in  any  other  place  as  easily  as  in  this  cross-roads  of 
highways  and  waters? 

"Why,  indeed  ?"  assented  the  Groom.  "When  you 
find  a  stone  stuck  on  end  at  the  corner  of  a  parcel  of 
land,  you  know  that  the  stone  was  placed  there  to 
mark  the  corner,  don't  you?" 

"Reminds  me  of  the  providential  way  that  rivers 
always  run  past  cities,  just  where  they  are  needed/' 
carped  the  Colonel. 

"It  isn't  the  same  thing,"  said  the  Bride  hotly. 
"You're  getting  mean,  Colonel !" 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  295 

"Honing  for  the  wrangle  of  the  courts,  Bride/' 
said  he.  "I  apologize." 

"Well,"  said  Aconite,  "there's  a  lot  of  bigger  mys- 
teries than  them  in  these  regions.  Here's  the  Petri- 
fied Trees,  over  here  in  a  ravine  just  off  the  road.  If 
we  don't  see  the  petrified  forest  up  Amethyst  Crick 
way,  maybe  you'd  like  to  look  at  these  an'  tell  me 
how  trees  ever  turned  to  stone  that-a-way." 

There  they  stood,  splintered  by  the  elements,  in- 
dubitably the  stubs  of  trees,  and  unquestionably 
stone.  The  Professor  began  an  explanation  of  the 
phenomenon  of  petrifaction,  but  nobody  paid  him 
any  attention. 

"Old  Jim  Bridger,"  said  Aconite,  "discovered  the 
Petrified  Forest,  up  in  the  Lamar  Valley;  an'  back 
in  the  mountains  som'eres  he  found  a  place  where 
the  grass,  birds  an'  everything  else  was  petrified. 
Even  a  waterfall  was  petrified,  an'  Stan's  thar  luk 
glass." 

"And  the  roar  of  it  is  petrified,  and  the  songs  of 
the  birds,  and  the  sunlight,  and  the  birds  singing 
their  petrified  songs  in  the  petrified  air,  in  which 
they  are  suspended  for  ever,  by  reason  of  the  petri- 
faction of  the  force  of  gravity,  which  otherwise 
would  bring  them  down !" 


296  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

Thus  the  Poet.  Aconite  looked  at  him  in  surprise. 

"Either  you've  been  here  before,"  said  he,  "or 
you've  knowed  some  one  that  has  been!" 

Time  refused  to  serve  for  an  exploration  of  the 
regions  northeast  of  the  New  Bridge,  though  the 
road  invited,  and  the  Artist  strongly  argued  for  the 
trip.  He  wanted  to  see  the  Fossil  Forest,  and  Ame- 
thyst Falls,  Amethyst  Creek,  Amethyst  Mountain 
and  Specimen  Ridge.  But  they  turned  their  backs 
on  these,  on  Soda  Butte  and  its  wonderful  canon, 
and  that  of  the  Lamar,  on  the  piscatorial  delights  of 
Trout  Lake,  the  mystery  of  Death  Gulch,  and  the 
weirdnesses  of  the  Hoodoo  Region.  The  Bride  and 
Groom  were  due  to  take  train  from  Gardiner,  and 
on  to  San  Francisco.  At  Yancey's  the  Bride  invited 
them  to  a  parting  dinner  when  they  should  reach 
Mammoth  Hot  Springs  Hotel,  and  when  Aconite 
and  the  Hired  Man  failed  to  recognize  themselves 
as  included,  the  Bride  assured  them  that  the  occasion 
would  be  ruined  if  they  did  not  attend — and  they 
promised. 

They  reached  Yancey's  early  in  the  afternoon,  but 
the  Bride  was  so  enraptured  by  its  beauties  as  a 
camping  place  that  they  made  camp  for  the  night, 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  297 

and  drawing  from  the  hat  the  name  of  Aconite  as 
the  entertainer  for  the  evening,  and  the  Poet  for  the 
dinner  at  the  Hotel,  each  found  himself  feeling  like 
one  who  has  sent  his  luggage  to  the  station,  and 
awaits  the  carriage  to  bear  him  from  home ;  or  like 
sailors  who  have  their  dunnage  ready  for  the  dock  at 
the  end  of  the  voyage. 

Their  relationship  had  grown  to  something  very 
like  intimacy  in  something  more  than  half  a 
month.  And  they  were  about  to  go  their  several 
ways,  like  ships  that  pass  in  the  night.  It  was  their 
great  good  fortune  to  have  so  met  and  acted  that 
every  member  of  the  party  felt  the  companionship  a 
tolerable  thing  to  contemplate  as  a  permanency — 
that  should  they  be  in  any  mysterious — though 
scarcely  improbable — interposition  of  glass  barrier, 
or  fiery  lake,  or  gulf  filled  with  deadly  vapor,  shut 
into  this  marvelous  region,  they  could  be  good 
friends  and  good  fellows.  And  they  listened  respect- 
fully as  Aconite,  under  the  trees  at  Yancey's,  spun 
the  yarn  of  his  love  affair  with  an  Oberlin  College 
girl,  his  connection  with  a  Rosebud  beef  issue  fraud, 
and  the  tragedy  that  resulted  from  the  mixture 
thereof. 


298  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

THE  JILTING  OF  MR.  DRISCOLL 
ACONITE'S  SECOND  TALE 

This  here  doctrine  of  Mr.  Witherspoon's  about 
lettin'  cattle  range  wide,  has  some  arguments  of  a 
humane  nature  back  of  it.  But  his  openin'  of  it  up 
in  the  instructions  f  r  runnin'  the  ten  thousand 
dogies,  was  the  same  kind  of  a  miscue  the  Pawnees 
made  when  they  laid  fer  an'  roped  the  U.  P.  flyer — 
which  Mr.  Elkins  described  as  a  misapplication  of 
sound  theory  to  new  an'  unwonted  conditions;  as 
the  rattler  said  when  he  swallered  the  lawn  hose. 
Principles  has  their  local  habitats  the  same  as  live 
things ;  an'  nothin'  is  worse  f 'r  'em  than  to  turn  'em 
loose  where  they  don't  know  the  water-holes  an' 
wind-breaks.  Principles  that'll  lay  on  fat  an'  top 
the  market  in  Boston,  '11  queer  the  hull  game  in  a 
country  where  playin'  it  is  tangled  up  with  Injuns, 
gold  mines,  'r  range-stuff.  In  the  short-grass  coun- 
try, dogy  principles  are  sure  a  source  of  loss,  until 
they  get  hardened  up  so's  to  git  out  and  rustle  with 
the  push.  Now,  this  Humane- Society-Inj un-Relief- 
Corps  form  of  doin'  good — harmless,  you'd  say,  as 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  299 

we  set  here  by  the  grub-wagon ;  but  I  swear  to  God- 
frey's Gulch,  the  worst  throw-down  I  ever  got  in  a 
social  way  growed  out  of  a  combination  of  them  two 
highly  proper  idees  with  a  Oberlin  College  gal  I 
met  up  to  Chamberlain. 

This  was  the  way  of  it :  The  "O.  M."  Mr.  Elkins, 
I  mean,  of  the  J-Up-An'-Down  Ranch,  was  called 
to  Sioux  Falls  as  a  witness  in  a  case  of  selling  con- 
versation-water to  the  Injuns,  an'  casually  landed  a 
juicy  contract  with  Uncle  Sam  f'r  supplyin'  beef- 
issue  cattle  over  on  the  Rosebud.  The  Pierre  firm  of 
politicians  he  outbid,  havin'  things  framed  up  pretty 
good,  as  they  thought,  on  the  delivery,  at  once  hops 
to  him  with  a  proposition  to  pay  him  I  d'know  how 
much  money  an5  take  it  off  his  hands.  Havin'  a 
pongshong  f'r  doin'  business  on  velvet,  the  O.  M. 
snaps  'em  up  instantaneous,  an'  comes  home  to  Wolf 
Nose  Crick  smilin'  like  he'd  swallered  the  canary, 
an'  sends  me  to  Chamberlain  to  see  that  the  contract 
is  carried  out  as  f  er  as  proper. 

"Go  up,  Aconite,"  he  says,  "an'  remember  that 
while  the  J-Up-An'-Down  outfit  don't  feel  bound  to 
demand  any  reforms,  its  interests  must  be  protected. 
Any  sort  of  cattle  the  Pierre  crowd  can  make  look 
like  prime  steers  to  the  inspector,  goes  with  us. 


300  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

But,"  he  goes  on,  "our  names  and  not  theirs  are 
on  the  contract.  These  inspectors/'  says  he,  "bein' 
picked  out  on  their  merits  at  Washington,  to  look 
after  the  interests  of  the  government  an'  the  noble 
red,  it  would  be  unpatriotic  if  not  Lee's  Majesty  to 
cavil  at  their  judgment  on  steers,  especially  if  it 
coincides  with  that  of  Senator  Whaley's  men  at 
Pierre.  Therefore,  far  be  it  from  us  to  knock.  But 
be  leery  that  we  don't  get  stuck  for  non-perform- 
ance: which  we  can't  afford.  See?" 

It  was  purty  plain  to  a  man  who'd  matrickelated 
as  night-wrangler,  an'  graduated  as  it  on  the  J-Up- 
An'-Down,  an'  I  went  heart-free  an'  conscience 
clear,  seein'  my  duty  perfectly  plain. 

Now  at  Chamberlain  was  this  Oberlin  College 
lady,  who  had  some  kind  of  an  inflamed  conscience 
on  the  Injun  question,  an'  was  dead  stuck  on  dumb 
animals  an'  their  rights.  She  was  one  of  the  kind 
you  don't  see  out  here — blue  eyes,  you  know,  yellow 
hair,  the  kind  of  complexion  that  don't  outlive  many 
hot  winds;  an'  she  had  lots  of  pitchers  around  her, 
of  young  folks  in  her  classes,  an'  people  with  mortar- 
board hats  an'  black  nighties,  'r  striped  sweaters. 
She  was  irrupting  into  the  Injun  question  via  Cham- 
berlain. Her  thought  was  that  the  Injuns  was  really 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  301 

livin'  correct  Js  fur  as  they  had  a  chance,  an'  that  we 
orto  copy  their  ways,  instid  of  makin'  them  tag 
along  after  our'n. 

"Maybe  that's  so,"  says  I,  "but  I've  took  the 
Keeley  cure  twice  now,  an'  please  excuse  me!" 

She  looked  kinder  dazed  f'r  a  minute,  an'  then 
laffed,  an'  said  somethin'  about  the  sardonic  humor 
of  the  frontier. 

I  had  been  asked  to  give  a  exhibition  of  broncho 
bustin'  at  the  ranch  where  she  was  stayin'  an'  she 
was  agitatin'  herself  about  the  bronks'  feelin's.  I 
told  her  that  it  was  just  friendly  rivalry  between  the 
puncher  an'  the  bronk,  an'  how,  out  on  the  ranch,, 
the  gentle  critters  'd  come  up  an'  hang  around  by 
the  hour,  a-nickerin'  f'r  some  o'  the  gang  to  go  out 
an'  bust  'em. 

"It  reminds  me,"  she  says,  "of  my  brother's  point- 
ers begging  to  go  hunting." 

"Same  principle,"  says  I. 

It  seemed  to  ease  her  mind,  an'  feelin'  as  I  did 
toward  her,  I  wouldn't  have  her  worry  f'r  anything. 
Then  she  found  out  that  I  was  a  graduate  of  the 
high  school  of  Higgsville,  Kansas,  an'  used  to  know 
what  quadratics  was,  an'  that  my  way  of  emitting 
the  English  language  was  just  an  acquired  manner- 


302  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

ism,  like  the  hock-action  of  a  string-halted  hoss,  an* 
she  warmed  up  to  me  right  smart,  both  then  an' 
after,  never  askin'  to  see  my  diploma,  an'  begun  in- 
terrogatin'  me  about  the  beef-issue,  an'  discussin' 
the  Injun  question  like  a  lifelong  friend.  Whereat, 
I  jumped  the  game. 

But,  for  all  that,  about  this  time  I  become  subject 
to  attacts  of  blue  eyes  an'  yellow  hair,  accompanied 
by  vertigo,  blind-staggers,  bots,  ringin'  in  the  ears — 
like  low,  confabulatin'  talk,  kinder  interspersed  with 
little  bubbles  of  lafture — an'  a  sense  o'  guilt  when- 
ever I  done  anything  under  the  canopy  of  heaven 
that  I  was  used  to  doin'.  Can  yeh  explain  that,  now  ? 
Why  this  Oberlin  proposition  should  make  me  feel 
like  a  criminal  jest  because  the  pony  grunted  at  the 
cinchin'  o'  the  saddle,  'r  because  I  lammed  him  f'r 
bitin'  a  piece  out  o'  my  thigh  at  the  same  time,  goes 
too  deep  into  mind  science  f'r  Aconite  Driscoll.  O' 
course,  a  man  under  them  succumstances  is  supposed 
to  let  up  on  cussin'  an'  not  to  listen  to  all  kinds  o' 
stories ;  but  you  understand,  here  I  was,  conscience- 
struck  in  a  general  an'  hazy  sort  of  way,  mournin' 
over  a  dark  an'  bloody  past,  an'  thinkin'  joyfully  of 
death.  It  was  the  condemnedest  case  I  ever  con- 
tracted, an'  nothin'  saved  me  to  be  a  comfort  to  my 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  303 

friends  but  the  distraction  of  the  queer  actions  of 
that  inspector. 

I  never  had  given  him  a  thought.  Senator  Whaley 
an'  his  grafters  was  supposed  to  arrange  matters 
with  him — an'  I'm  no  corruptionist,  anyway.  Of 
course,  the  cattle  wasn't  quite  up  to  export  shippin' 
quality.  The  senator's  gang  had  got  together  a  col- 
lection of  skips  an'  culls  an'  canners  that  was  sure 
a  fraud  on  the  Injuns,  who  mostly  uses  the  cattle  is- 
sued to  'em  the  way  some  high-up  civilized  folks 
does  hand-raised  foxes — as  a  means  of  revortin'  to 
predatory  savagery,  as  Miss  Ainsley  says.  Ainsley 
was  her  name — Gladys  Ainsley — an'  she  lived  som- 
'eres  around  Toledo.  The  p'int  is,  that  they  chase 
'em,  with  wild  whoops  an'  yips  over  the  undulatin' 
reservation  until  they  can  shoot  'em,  an'  I  s'pose, 
sort  of  imagine,  if  Injuns  have  imaginations,  that 
time  has  turned  back'ard  in  her  flight,  an'  the  buf- 
falo season  is  on  ag'in.  Whereas,  these  scandal- 
ous runts  of  steers  an'  old  cow  stuff  was  mostly 
too  weak  or  too  old  to  put  up  any  sort  of  a  bluff 
at  speed. 

But,  under  my  instructions,  if  they  looked  good  to 
the  inspector,  they  looked  good  to  me ;  an?  bein'  sort 
of  absent-minded  with  gal-stroke,  I  rested  easy,  as 


304  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

the  feller  said  when  the  cyclone  left  him  on  top  o' 
the  church  tower. 

The  inspector  was  a  new  man,  an'  his  queer  ac- 
tions consisted  mostly  of  his  showin'  up  ten  days 
too  soon,  an'  then  drivin'  'r  ridin'  around  the  coun- 
try lookin'  at  the  stock  before  delivery.  This  looked 
suspicious ;  f er  we  s'posed  it  was  all  off  but  runnin' 
'em  through  the  gap  once,  twice  'r  three  times  to  be 
counted.  Whaley's  man  comes  to  me  one  day,  an'  ast 
me  what  I  thought  of  it. 

"I'm  paid  a  princely  salary,"  says  I,  "fer  keepin' 
my  thoughts  to  myself.  This  here's  no  case,"  I  con- 
tinued, "callin'  f'r  cerebration  on  my  part.  If  think- 
in's  the  game,  it's  your  move.  What's  Senator 
Whaley  in  politics  fer,"  says  I,  "if  a  obscure  forty- 
a-month-an'-found  puncher  is  to  be  called  on  to  think 
on  the  doin's  of  a  U.  S.  inspector?  What's  he  in  this 
fer  at  all,  if  we've  got  to  think  at  this  end  of  the 
lariat?" 

"He  was  talkin'  about  caws,"  said  the  feller, 
whose  name  was  Reddy — a  most  ungrammatical 
cuss.  "He  was  a-pokin'  round  with  the  contrack, 
a-speakin'  about  caws.  Wun't  you  go  an'  talk  to 
him?" 

"Not  me !"  says  I,  f'r  the  hull  business  disgusted 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  305 

me,  an'  my  guilt  come  back  over  me  shameful,  with 
the  eyes  an'  hair  an'  things  plenteous.  Whaley's  man 
rode  off,  shakin'  his  head. 

Next  day  the  inspector  hunted  me  up. 

"Mr.  Driscoll?"  says  he,  f'r  I'd  been  keepin'  out 
of  his  way. 

"Correct,"  says  I. 

"You  represent  the  Elkins'  interests  in  the  matter 
of  supplying  for  the  issue,  do  you  not?"  says  he. 

"In  a  kind  of  a  sort  of  a  way,"  says  I,  f'r  I  didn't 
care  to  admit  too  much  till  I  see  what  he  was  up  to. 
"In  a  kind  of  a  sort  of  a  way,  mebbe  I  do.  Why?" 

"Did  you  have  anything  to  do,"  says  he,  unfold- 
in'  a  stiff  piece  of  paper,  "with  procuring  the  cattle 
now  in  readiness  for  delivery?" 

"Hell,  no!"  I  yells,  an'  then  seein'  my  mistake,  I 
jumped  an'  added :  "You  see,  the  top  stuff  f'r  the 
Injun  market  is  perduced  up  around  Pierre.  So  we 
sub-contracted  with  this  Pierre  outfit  to  supply  it. 
It's  their  funeral,  not  ours.  It's  good  stock,  ain't  it?" 

"I  am  assured  by  Senator  Whaley's  private  secre- 
tary," says  he,  "who  is  a  classmate  of  mine,  that 
there  would  be  great  dissatisfaction  among  the  In- 
dians, owing  to  certain  tribal  traditions  and  racial 
peculiarities — " 


3o6  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

"You  bet!"  says  I,  f'r  he  seemed  to  be  gettin' 
wound  up  an'  cast  in  it,  "that's  the  exact  situation !" 

"Would  be  dissatisfaction,"  he  went  on,  "if  cattle 
of  the  type  which  in  the  great  markets  is  considered 
best,  were  furnished  here.  And  I  have  great  confi- 
dence in  his  judgment." 

"So've  I,"  I  says.  "He's  one  of  the  judgmentious- 
est  fellers  you  ever  see." 

"So  let  that  phase  of  the  question  pass,"  says  he, 
"for  the  present.  But  there's  a  clause  in  this  con- 
tract—" 

"Don't  let  that  worry  you,"  says  I.  "There's 
claws  in  all  of  'em  if  you  look  close." 

He  never  cracked  a  smile,  but  unfolded  it,  and 
went  on. 

"Here's  a  clause,"  says  he,  "calling  for  a  hundred 
and  fifty  cows  with  calves  at  foot,  for  the  dairy 
herd,  I  presume." 

"Caws  at  what?"  says  I. 

"At  foot,"  says  he,  p'intin'  at  a  spot  along  toward 
the  bottom.  "Right  there!" 

"It's  impossible!"  says  I.  "They  don't  wear  'em 
that  way." 

He  studied  over  it  quite  a  while,  at  that,  an'  I 
begun  to  think  I'd  won  out,  but  at  last  he  says: 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  307 

"That's  the  way  it  reads,  an'  while  I  shall  not  insist 
upon  any  particular  relation  of  juxtaposition  in  off- 
spring and  dam — " 

"Whope!"  says  I,  "back  up  an'  come  ag'in  pard- 
ner." 

"It  seems  to  be  my  duty  to  insist  upon  the  one 
hundred  and  fifty  cows  and  calves.  Now  the  point 
is,  I  don't  find  any  such  description  of  creatures 
among  the — the  bunches  in  seeming  readiness  for 
delivery." 

"O!"  says  I,  "that's  what's  eating  yeh,  is  it?  W'l 
don't  worry  any  more.  The  cow  kindergarten's  fur- 
der  up  the  river.  We  didn't  want  to  put  the  tender 
little  devils  where  they'd  be  tramped  on  by  them 
monstrous  big  oxen  you  noticed  around  the  corrals. 
This  caff  business  is  all  right,  trust  us !" 

Whaley's  man  was  waitin'  fer  me  down  at  the 
saloon,  an'  when  I  told  him  about  the  caws,  he 
shrunk  into  himself  like  a  collapsed  foot-ball,  an' 
wilted. 

"Hain't  yeh  got  'em?"  says  I. 

"Huh!"  says  he,  comin'  out  of  it.  "Don't  be  a 
dum  fool,  Aconite.  This  is  the  first  I  understood  of 
it,  an'  whoever  heared  of  an  inspector  readin'  a  con- 
track?  And  there  ain't  them  many  caws  to  be  got 


3o8  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

by  that  time  in  all  Dakoty.    Le's  hit  the  wires  f  r 
instructions!" 

The  telegrams  runs  something  like  this : 

To  Senator  Patrick  Whaley,  Washington,  D.  C. : 

Contract  calls  for  a  hundred  and  fifty  cows  with 
calves  at  foot.  What  shall  I  do?  REDDY. 

To  Reddy  Withers,  Chamberlain,  S.  D. : 

Wire  received.   Calves  at  what  ?   Explain,  collect. 

WHALEY. 

Hundred  and  fifty  cows  and  calves.  What  do  you 
advise  ?  REDDY. 

See  inspector.  WHALEY. 

Won't  do.  Inspector  wrong.  REDDY. 

Fix  inspector  or  get  calves.  WHALEY. 

I'd  got  about  the  same  kind  of  a  telegram  to  Mr. 
Elkins,  addin'  that  the  Whaley  crowd  was  up  in  the 
air.  I  sent  it  by  Western  Union  to  Sturgis,  and  then 
up  Wolf  Nose  Crick  by  the  Belle  Fourche  and  Else- 
where Telephone  Line.  The  O.  M.,  as  usual,  cuts 
the  melon  with  a  word.  His  wire  was  as  follows. 

Take  first  train  Chicago.  Call  for  letter  Smith  & 
Jones  Commission  merchants  Union  Stock  Yards. 

ELKINS. 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  309 

This  was  sure  an  affliction  on  me,  f  'r  I  had  fixed 
up  a  deal  to  go  with  Miss  Ainsley  an7  her  friends  on 
a  campin'  trip,  lastin'  up  to  the  day  of  the  issue. 
She'd  been  readin'  one  of  Hamlin  Garland's  books 
about  a  puncher  who'd  scooted  through  the  British 
aristocracy,  hittin'  only  the  high  places  in  a  social 
way,  on  the  strength  of  a  gold  prospect  an'  the  dia- 
mond hitch  to  a  mule-pack.  She  wanted  to  see  the 
diamond  hitch  of  all  things.  There  orto  be  a  law 
ag'inst  novel-writin'.  I  got  Reddy  to  learn  me  the 
diamond  hitch  so  I  could  make  good  with  Gladys, 
an'  here  was  this  mysterious  caff  expedition  to  the 
last  place  in  the  world,  Chicago,  a-yankin'  me  off  by 
the  night  train. 

I  went  over  to  tell  her  about  it.  First,  I  thought 
I'd  put  on  the  clo'es  I  expected  to  wear  to  Chicago, 
a  dandy  fifteen  dollar  suit  I  got  in  town.  An'  then 
I  saw  how  foolish  this  would  be,  an'  brushed  up  my 
range  clo'es,  tied  a  new  silk  scarf  in  my  soft  roll 
collar,  an'  went.  Here's  my  diagram  of  the  Li-$ak- 
up:  Any  o'  them  mortar-board-hat,  black-nightie 
fellers  she  had  pitchers  of,  could  probably  afford  fif- 
teen dollar  clay-worsteds ;  but  it  was  a  good  gamblin' 
proposition  that  none  of  'em  could  come  in  at  the 
gate  like  a  personally-conducted  cyclone,  bring  up 


310  YELLOWSTONE   NIGHTS 

a-stannin'  from  a  dead  run  to  a  dead  stop  's  if  they'd 
struck  a  stone  wall,  go  clear  from  the  bronk  as  he 
fetched  up  an'  light  like  a  centaur  before  her,  with 
their  sombrero  in  their  hand.  Don't  light,  you  say  ? 
Wai,  I  mean  as  a  centaur  would  light  if  he  took  a 
notion.  You'd  better  take  a  hike  down  to  see  how 
the  steed's  gettin'  along,  Bill,  'r  else  subside  about 
this  Greek  myth  biz.  It  helps  on  with  this  story — 
not! 

The  p'int  is,  that  gals  and  fellers  both  like  variety. 
To  me,  the  "y"  in  her  name,  the  floss  in  her  hair, 
the  kind  of  quivery  lowness  in  her  voice,  the  rustle 
of  her  dresses  as  she  walked,  the  way  she  looked 
like  the  pitchers  in  the  magazines  an'  talked  like  the 
stories  in  'em,  all  corroborated  to  throw  the  hooks 
into  me.  An'  I  s'pose  the  nater's-nobleman  gag  went 
likewise  with  her.  Subsekent  happenings — but  I  must 
hold  that  back. 

We  sot  in  the  hammock  that  night — the  only  time 
Aconite  Driscoll  ever  was  right  up  against  the  real 
thing  in  ladies'  goods — an'  she  read  me  a  piece  about 
a  Count  Gibson  a-shooting  his  lady-love's  slanderers 
so  full  o'  holes  at  a  turnament  that  they  wouldn't 
hold  hazel-brush.  They  was  one  verse  she  hesitated 
over,  an'  skipped. 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  311 

I  ast  her  if  she  thought  she — as  a  supposed  case — 
could  live  out  in  this  dried-up-an'-blowed-away 
country;  an'  she  said  the  matter  had  really  never 
been  placed  before  her  in  any  such  a  way  as  to  call 
for  a  decision  on  her  part.  Purty  smooth,  that! 
Then  she  read  another  piece  that  wound  up  with 
"Love  is  best !"  from  the  same  book,  an'  forgot  to 
take  her  hand  away  when  I  sneaked  up  on  it,  an' — 
Gosh !  talk  about  happiness :  we  never  git  anything 
o'  quite  that  kind  out  here!  I  never  knowed  how  I 
got  to  the  train,  'r  anything  else  ontil  we  was  a- 
crossin'  the  Mississippi  at  North  McGregor.  Here 
the  caff  question  ag'in  unveiled  its  heejus  front,  ,to 
be  mulled  over  till  I  reached  the  cowman's  harbor 
in  Chicago,  the  Exchange  Building  at  the  Yards,  an' 
found  Jim  Elkins'  instructions  awaitin'  me.  They 
read: 

"DEAR  ACONITE  : 

"The  Chicago  stockyards  are  the  nation's  doorstep 
for  bovine  foundlings.  New-born  calves  are  a  drug 
on  the  market  there,  owing  to  abuses  in  the  shipping 
business  which  we  won't  just  now  take  time  to  dis- 
cuss, to  say  nothing  about  curing  'em.  What  is  done 
with  'em  is  a  mystery  which  may  be  solved  some 
day ;  but  that  they  perish  in  some  miserable  way  is 
certain.  Two  carloads  of  them  must  perish  on  the 


312  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

Rosebud  instead  of  in  Packingtown — in  the  Sioux 
soup  kettles,  instead  of  the  rendering  tanks,  if  you 
can  keep  them  alive  to  reach  Chamberlain — and  I 
have  great  confidence  in  your  ability  to  perform  this 
task  imposed  upon  you  by  the  carelessness  of  Sen- 
ator Whaley's  men  either  at  Washington  or  at  the 
range.  I  have  heard  that  one  or  two  raw  eggs  per 
day  per  calf  will  preserve  them,  and  it  looks  reason- 
able. Smith  and  Jones  will  have  them  ready  loaded 
for  you  for  the  next  fast  freight  west.  I  hope  you'll 
enjoy  your  trip!" 

Well,  you  may  have  listened  to  the  plaintive  beller 
of  a  single  caff  at  weanin'  time,  Jr  perhaps  to  the 
symferny  that  emanates  from  the  pen  of  three  'r 
four.  Furder'n  this  the  experience  of  most  don't  go. 
Hence,  I  don't  hope  to  give  yeh  any  idee  of  the  sound 
that  eckered  over  northern  Illinois  from  them  two 
cars  o'  motherless  waifs.  The  cry  of  the  orphan 
smote  the  air  in  a  kind  of  endless  chain  o'  noise  that 
at  two  blocks  off  sounded  like  a  chorus  of  steam 
calliopes  practicin'  holts  at  about  middle  C.  Nothin' 
like  it  had  ever  been  heared  of  or  done  in  Chicago, 
an'  stockmen,  an'  reporters,  an'  sight-seers  swarmed 
around  wantin'  to  know  what  I  was  a-goin'  to  do 
with  the  foundlin's — an'  I  wa'nt  in  any  position  to 
be  interviewed,  with  the  Chicago  papers  due  in 
Chamberlain  before  I  was.  I'd  'ave  had  a  dozen 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  313 

scraps  if  it  hadn't  been  f 'r  the  fear  of  bein'  arrested. 
But  with  the  beef  issue  comin'  on  a-pacin',  I  had  to 
pass  up  luxuries  involvin'  delay.  I  sot  in  the  caboose, 
an  object  of  the  prurient  curiosity  of  the  train-crew 
ontil  we  got  to  Elgin  'r  som'eres  out  there,  where  I 
contracted  eight  cases  of  eggs  an'  one  of  nervous 
prostration. 

Here  it  was  I  begun  ministering  to  the  wants  of 
my  travelin'  orphan  asylum.  They  was  from  four 
hours  to  as  many  days  old  when  the  accident  of 
birth  put  'em  under  my  fosterin'  care.  I  knowed 
that  it  was  all  poppy-cock  givin'  dairy  'r  breedin' 
herds  to  them  Injuns,  an'  that  these  would  do  as 
well  f  r  their  uses,  'sif  they  had  real  mothers  instid 
o'  one  as  false  as  I  felt.  But  to  look  upon  'em  as  they 
appeared  in  the  cars,  would  'ave  give  that  con- 
sciencious  but  onsophisticated  inspector  the  jimjams. 
Part  of  'em  was  layin'  down,  an'  the  rest  trampin' 
over  'em,  an'  every  one  swellin'  the  chorus  o'  blats 
that  told  o'  hunger  an'  unhappiness.  I  took  a  basket 
of  eggs  an'  went  in  among  'em,  feelin'  like  a  animal 
trainer  in  a  circus  parade  as  the  Reubens  gethered 
around  the  train,  an'  business  houses  closed  f'r  the 
show.  I  waited  till  the  train  pulled  out,  an'  begun 
my  career  as  nurse-maid-in-gineral. 


3H  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

"How  cruel!"  said  the  Bride. 
"Thanks,"  said  Aconite.  "It  shore  was!" 
Ever  try  to  feed  a  young  caff  ?  Ever  notice  how 
they  faint  with  hunger  before  you  begin,  an'  all  at 
once  develop  the  strength  of  a  hoss  when  you  stand 
over  'em  an'  try  to  hold  their  fool  noses  in  the  pail  ? 
Ever  see  a  caff  that  couldn't  stand  alone,  run  gaily 
off  with  a  two-hundred-an'-fifty-pound  farmer, 
poisin'  a  drippin'  pail  on  his  nose,  an'  his  counte- 
nance a  geyser  of  milk?  Well,  then  you  can  form 
some  faint  idee  of  the  practical  difficulty  of  inducin' 
a  caff,  all  innercent  o'  the  world  an'  its  way  o'  takin' 
sustenance,  to  suck  a  raw  egg.  But  nothin'  but  actual 
experience  can  impart  any  remote  approach  to  a  no- 
tion o'  what  it  means  to  incorporate  the  fruit  o'  the 
nest  with  the  bossy  while  bumpin'  over  the  track  of 
a  northern  Iowa  railroad  in  a  freight  car,  movin'  at 
twenty-five  miles  an  hour.  I  used  up  two  cases  of 
eggs  before  I  was  sure  of  havin'  alleviated  one  pang 
of  hunger,  such  was  the  scorn  my  kindly  offers  was 
rejected  with.  The  result  was  astoundin'.  Them 
cars  swept  through  the  country,  their  decks  slippery 
with  yaller  gore,  an'  their  lee  scuppers  runnin'  bank- 
full,  as  the  sailors  say,  with  Tom-an'-Jerry  an'  egg 
shampoo.  An'  all  the  time  went  on  that  symferny 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  315 

of  blats,  risin'  an'  fallin'  on  the  prairie  breeze  as  we 
rolled  from  town  to  town,  a  thing  to  be  gazed  at 
an'  listened  to  an'  never  forgot;  to  be  side-tracked 
outside  city  limits  f'r  fear  of  the  Board  of  Health 
and  the  S.  P.  C.  A.,  an'  me  ostrichized  by  the  very 
brakey  in  the  caboose  as  bein'  unfit  f'r  publication, 
an'  forced  to  buy  a  mackintosh  to  wrap  myself  in 
before  they'd  let  me  lay  down  on  their  old  seats  to 
sleep.  An'  when  my  visions  revolted  back  to  the 
Oberlin  people,  I  couldn't  dream  o'  that  yaller  hair 
even,  without  its  seemin'  to  float  out,  an'  out,  an'  out 
into  a  sea  of  soft-boiled,  in  which  her  an'  me  was 
strugglin',  to  the  howlin'  of  a  tearin'  tempest  of 
blats. 

"And  next  when  Aconite  he  rides,"  remarked  the 
Poet,  "may  I  be  there  to  see!" 

At  last  we  arrived  at  Chamberlain.  An'  here's 
where  the  head-end  collision  of  principles  comes  in, 
that  I  mentioned  a  while  ago.  Here's  where  Aconite 
Driscoll,  who  for  days  had  been  givin'  a  mother's 
care  to  two  hundred  caws,  was  condemned  f'r 
cruelty ;  an'  when  he'd  been  strainin'  every  nerve  an' 
disturbin'  the  egg  market  to  keep  from  bustin'  a  set 
of  concealed  claws  in  a  gover'ment  contract,  he  was 


316  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

banished  as  an  eggcessory  to  the  crime  of  bilkin' 
poor  Lo.  This  tradegy  happens  out  west  o'  the  river 
at  the  Issue  House. 

Reddy  had  a  string  of  wagons  with  hog- racks 
onto  'em  waitin'  in  the  switch-yards  when  we  whis- 
tled in,  an'  the  way  we  yanked  them  infants  off  the 
cars  and  trundled  'em  over  the  pontoon  bridge,  an' 
hit  the  trail  f'r  the  Issue  House,  was  a  high-class 
piece  o'  teamin'.  We  powdered  across  the  country 
like  the  first  batch  of  sooners  at  a  reservation  open- 
in'.  Out  on  the  prairie  was  Reddy  an'  his  punchers, 
slowly  dribblin'  the  last  of  his  steers  into  the  de- 
livery, too  anxious  f'r  me  an'  the  caws  to  be  ashamed 
of  their  emaciation.  Out  behind  a  butte,  he  had  con- 
cealed a  bunch  of  cow-stuff  he'd  deppytized  as 
mothers  pro  tern  to  my  waifs.  The  right  way  t've 
done,  o'  course,  would've  been  to  incorporated  the 
two  bunches  in  a  unassumin'  way  at  a  remoter  place, 
an*  drove  'em  gently  in  as  much  like  cattle  o'  the 
same  family  circles  as  yeh  could  make  'em  look. 
But  they  wan't  time.  The  end-gates  was  jerked  out, 
an'  the  wagons  ongently  emptied  like  upsettin'  a 
sleigh  comin'  home  from  spellin'  school.  Most  all 
the  orphans  could  an'  did  walk,  an'  I  was  so  tickled 
at  this  testimonial  to  the  egg-cure  f'r  youthful  weak- 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  317 

ness,  that  we  had  'em  half  way  to  the  place  where 
the  knives  o'  their  owners-elect  was  a  waitin'  'em 
when  I  looked  around  an'  seen  Miss  Ainsley,  an' 
the  Chamberlain  lady  she  was  a-stayin'  with,  stand- 
in'  where  they  must  'a'  seen  the  way  we  mussed  the 
caws  hair  up  in  gettin'  of  'em  on  the  ground. 

Gladys'  eyes  was  a-blazin',  an'  they  was  a  red 
spot  in  each  cheek.  She  seemed  sort  o'  pressin'  for- 
wards, like  she  wanted  to  mix  it  up,  an'  her  lady 
friend  was  tryin'  to  head  her  off.  I  saw  she  didn't 
recognize  me,  an'  I  didn't  thirst  f'r  recognition.  I 
knew  that  love  ain't  so  blind  as  she's  been  adver- 
tised, an'  that  I  wouldn't  never,  «no,  never,  be  a 
nater's  nobleman  no  more  if  she  ever  tumbled  to  the 
fact  that  the  human  omelette  runnin'  this  caff  busi- 
ness was  A.  Driscoll.  It  was  only  a  case  of  sweet- 
gal-graduate  palpitation  o'  the  heart  anyhow,  an' 
needed  the  bronzed  cheek,  the  droopin'  mustache, 
the  range  clo'es,  the  deadly  gun,  the  diamond  hitch, 
and  the  centaur  biz  to  keep  it  up  to  its  wonted  palp. 

An'  what  was  it  that  was  offered  to  the  gaze  o' 
this  romantic  piece  o'  calicker?  Try  to  rearlize  the 
truth  in  all  its  heejusness.  Here  was  the  afore- 
mentioned Driscoll  arrayed  in  what  was  once  an  Ai 
fifteen-dollar  suit  of  clay-worsteds,  a  good  biled 


318  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

shirt,  an'  a  new  celluloid  collar.  But  how  changed 
from  what  had  been  but  three  short  days  ago  the 
cinnersure  of  the  eye  of  every  sure-thing  or  con- 
man  on  South  Halsted  Street?  Seventy- five  per 
cent,  of  eight  cases  of  eggs  had  went  billerin'  over 
him.  The  shells  of  the  same  clung  like  barnacles  to 
his  apparel.  His  curlin'  locks  was  matted  an'  muci- 
lagedSike  he'd  made  a  premature  getaway  from 
some  liberal-minded  shampooer ;  an'  from  under  his 
beetlin'  brows  that  looked  like  birds'  nests  from 
which  broods  had  just  hatched,  glared  eyes  with 
vi'lence  an'  crime  in  every  glance.  Verily,  Aconite 
was  a  beaut !  An'  here,  a-comin'  down  upon  him  like 
the  angel  o'  the  Lord  on  the  Assyrian  host,  come  a 
starchy,  lacey,  filmy,  ribbiny  gal,  that  had  onst  let 
him  hold  her  hand,  by  gum !  her  eyes  burnin'  with 
vengeance,  an'  that  kinder  corn-shucky  rustlin'  that 
emanated  mysterious  from  her  dress  as  she  walked, 
a  drawin'  nearder  an'  nearder  every  breath. 

"Gladys!  Gladys!"  says  her  lady  friend.  An'  as 
Gladys  slowed  up,  she  says,  lower :  "I  wouldn't  in- 
terfere in  this  if  I  were  you,  dear!" 

"I  must!"  says  Gladys.  "It's  my  duty!  I  can't 
permit  dumb  animals  to  be  treated  so  without  a  pro- 
test. It  is  civic  cowardice  not  to  do  disagreeable 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  319 

things  for  principle.  I  wish  to  speak  to  the  man  in 
charge,  please!" 

I  kep'  minglin'  with  the  herd,  not  carin'  to  have 
disagreeable  things  done  to  me  for  principle,  but  she 
cuts  me  out,  an'  says,  says  she,  "Do  you  know  that 
there's  a  law  against  cruelty  to  dumb  animals?" 

"They  ain't  dumb,"  says  I,  trying  to  change  my 
voice,  an'  officin'  up  to  Reddy  to  shove  'em  along  to 
their  fate  while  I  held  the  foe  in  play.  "When 
you've  associated  with  these  cute  little  cusses  as  long 
an'  intermately  as  I  have,  ma'am,  you'll  know  that 
they  have  a  language  an'  an  ellerquence  all  their 
own,  that  takes  'em  out  of  the  pervisions  o'  that  law 
you  speak  of,  an' — " 

Here's  where  I  overplays  my  hand,  an'  lets  her 
get  onto  the  genuyne  tones  of  my  voice.  I  ortn't  to 
done  this,  f  r  she'd  heared  it  at  close  range.  An'  to 
make  a  dead  cinch  out  of  a  good  gamblin'  proposi- 
tion, I  looked  her  in  the  eyes.  It  was  all  off  in  a 
breath.  She  give  a  sort  of  gasp  as  if  somethin'  cold 
had  hit  her,  an'  went  petrified,  sort  o'  slow  like. 

"Oh!"  says  she,  turnin'  her  head  to  her  friend. 
"I  understand  now  what  it  was  your  husband  was 
laughing  about,  and  his  odious  jokes  about  fooling 
the  inspector;  and  the  bearing  of  the  article  he 


320  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

showed  us  in  the  Chicago  paper!  O,  Mr.  Driscoll, 
you  to  be  so  cruel ;  and  to  impose  these  poor  mother- 
less creatures  upon  those  ignorant  Indians,  who  are 
depending  upon  their  living  and  becoming  the 
nucleus  of  their  pastoral  industry;  and  the  first  step 
to  a  higher  civilization!  I  don't  wonder  that  you 
look  guilty,  or  try — " 

"I  don't !"  says  I,  f  r  I  didn't,  as  fer  as  the  stock 
was  concerned.  "It's  these  here  eight  cases  of  eggs 
that  make  me  look  so.  It's  a  matter  o'  clo's.  An'  the 
reds'll  never  raise  cattle,"  says  I,  "or  anything  but 
trouble,  in  God's  world.  An'  if  these  caws  had  as 
many  mothers  as  a  Mormon  kid,"  I  went  on,  "they'd 
be  no  better  f 'r  stew !" 

"Mr.  Driscoll,"  says  she,  "don't  ever  speak  to  me 
again.  I  shall  expose  this  matter  to  the  inspector!" 

I  tried  to  lift  my  hat,  but  it  was  stuck  to  my  hair; 
an'  the  sight  of  me  pullin'  desperately  at  my  own 
head  had  some  effect  on  her,  f'r  she  flees  to  her 
friend,  actin'  queer,  but  whuther  laffin'  'r  cryin'  I 
couldn't  say,  an'  I  don't  s'pose  she  could.  It's  im- 
material anyway,  the  main  p'int  bein'  that  her 
friend's  husband,  a  friend  of  the  senator's,  per- 
suaded her  from  havin'  us  all  pinched,  when  she 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  321 

found  that  Reddy'd  beat  her  to  it  with  the  caws, 
the  last  one  of  which  was  expirin'  under  the  squaws' 
hatchets  as  she  hove  in  sight  of  the  issue,  an'  the 
soup-kittles  was  all  a-steamin.  It  reely  was  too  late 
to  do  anything,  I  guess. 

That  night  I  slep'  in  Oacoma  jail.  You  naturally 
gravitate  that  way  when  fate  has  ground  you  about 
so  fine,  an'  you  begin  to  drift  with  the  blizzard.  I 
could  'a'  stood  the  throw-down,  but  to  be  throwed 
down  in  a  heap  with  eggs  an'  dirty  clo'es,  was  too 
much.  I  took  that  suit  an'  made  a  bundle  of  it,  an' 
out  on  the  pontoon  bridge  I  poked  it  into  the  Mis- 
souri with  a  pole.  They're  usin'  the  water  to  settle 
coffee  with,  I'm  told,  as  fur  down  as  Saint  Joe,  to 
this  day — 's  good  as  the  whites  of  eggs,  the  cooks 
say.  Then,  havin'  wired  my  resignation  to  Elkins, 
f  eelin'  that  the  world  held  no  vocation  f 'r  me  but  the 
whoop-er-up  business,  I  returned  to  the  west  side  of 
the  river  as  the  only  place  suited  to  my  talons,  an' 
went  forth  to  expel  the  eggs  an'  tender  memories 
from  my  system  with  wetness.  I  broke  jail  in  the 
mornin'  but  in  a  week  I  come  to  myself  ag'in  on  the 
same  ol'  cot  in  the  same  prehistoric  calaboose,  an' 
Mr.  Elkins  was  keepin'  the  flies  off  me  with  one  o' 


322  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

them  brushes  made  of  a  fringed  newspaper  tacked 
to  a  stick. 

"I've  come,"  says  he,  "to  take  you  home,  Aco- 
nite." 

"All  right,"  says  I,  "but  can  you  fix  it  up  with  the 
authorities  ?" 

"I'm  just  going  over  to  get  your  discharge,"  re- 
plies he.  "They  seem  quite  willing  to  part  with  you, 
now  that  they  discover  that  none  of  your  victims 
have  anything  deeper  than  flesh  wounds.  I've  give 
bonds  not  to  let  you  have  your  guns  this  side  of  the 
Stanley  County  line.  I'll  be  back  in  half-an-hour 
with  the  horses." 

An'  here's  where  I  had  a  narrow  escape.  I 
wouldn't  have  faced  her,  the  girl,  you  know,  f 'r  no 
money;  but  as  Jim  went  away,  right  at  the  door  I 
seen  through  a  little  winder  a  shimmerin'  of  white 
and  blue.  It  was  her,  herself!  She  must  have  met 
Jim  before,  f 'r  I  heared  her  speak  his  name  an'  mine. 
He  seemed  to  be  perlitely  arguin'  with  her ;  an'  then 
she  went  away  with  him.  I  breathed  easier  to  see 
her  go ;  an'  then  set  down  an'  cried  like  a  baby.  A 
feller'll  do  that  easy,  when  he's  been  on  a  tear,  you 
know. 

Jim  an'  I  rode  all  that  day  sayin'  never  a  word. 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  323 

But  when  we'd  turned  in  that  night  I  mentioned  the 
matter. 

"Mr.  Elkins,"  says  I,  "she  sure  has  got  it  in  f  r 
me  pretty  strong,  to  foller  me  to  jail  to  jump  on 
me!" 

"Aconite,"  says  he,  "I'll  not  deceive  you.  She  has. 
Forget  it!" 

"Good  night,  Aconite,"  said  the  Bride.  "I  forgive 
you — and  I  think  I  know  just  how  that  girl  felt 
toward  you !" 


CHAPTER  XIII 

I 

r  I  SHE  Bride's  luggage  came  down  from  Gardiner, 
"*•  that  she  might  be  arrayed  in  her  purple  and  fine 
linen — and  silks,  satins,  ribbons,  laces  and  fallals — 
for  the  dinner.  And  then  her  heart  failed  her ;  and 
she  took  counsel  of  the  Groom. 

"Wear  'em!"  said  he.  And  she  did.  She  floated 
into  their  banquet  room  in  a  costume  that  would 
have  been  the  envy  of  every  woman  in  the  room  if 
the  function  had  been  at  one  of  the  mansions  along 
the  Sheridan  Road  or  the  Lake  Shore  Drive,  instead 
of  at  the  Mammoth  Hot  Springs  Hotel.  Aconite 
gasped,  wrenched  for  a  moment  at  his  new  silk 
neckerchief  of  the  sort  whose  local  color  had  won 
for  him  the  Bride  and  Groom  as  fares,  and  bowed  as 
he  backed  into  a  corner,  where  the  Hired  Man  joined 
him.  But  after  the  Groom,  the  Artist  and  the  Poet 
had  made  their  appearance  in  their  outing  suits,  and 
the  Colonel  in  nothing  more  formal  than  a  black 
frock,  they  gradually  recovered,  and  were  soon  in 

324 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  325 

the  group  which  hung  about  the  Bride  paying  hom- 
age to  those  twin  gods  of  all  our  adoration,  Beauty 
and  Millinery.  From  soup  to  nuts  they  discussed 
their  adventures,  and  re-trod  their  marvelous  road. 
As  the  Bride  rose  to  withdraw  when  the  coffee  and 
cigars  were  served,  there  was  a  loud  adverse  viva 
voce  vote.  The  Bride  must  stay;  she  had  stayed  at 
the  camp-fire,  and  she  should  not  leave  them  in  the 
banquet  hall.  So  it  was  an  unbroken  circle  that  lis- 
tened to  the  last  of  the  Yellowstone  Nights'  tales, 
as  it  fell  from  the  Poet's  lips.  The  story  was  sug- 
gested, as  most  of  its  predecessors  had  been,  by  the 
events  of  the  day.  They  had  seen  antelope  and  elk 
and  deer  as  they  drove  in  from  Yancey's,  and  had 
talked  of  hunting  adventures  and  accidents.  The 
Poet  began  by  speaking  of  the  way  in  which  men  are 
sometimes  the  hunters,  sometimes  the  hunted — quot- 
ing the  lines  from  Hiawatha, 

"The  fiery  eyes  of  Pauguk, 
Glare  upon  him  in  the  darkness." 

"Pauguk,"  said  he,  "is  Death.  And  I  will  tell  you 
the  true  story  of  how  a  man  stalked  Pauguk  through 
the  Minnesota  woods." 


326  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

THE  STALKING  OF  PAUGUK 

THE  POET'S  SECOND  STORY 

This  story  has  been  told  elsewhere,  and  has  been 
blamed  for  its  lack  of  a  moral.  People  seem  to  ex- 
pect one  so  to  put  to  the  rack  the  facts  in  the  case 
that  they  will  shriek  out  some  well-tried  message. 
Some  have  behaved  as  if  they  thought  the  moral 
here,  but  faulty.  Colonel  Loree  of  the  Solar  Selling 
Company,  however,  thinks  the  affair  rich  in  the  hie- 
•fabula-docet  element.  So  does  Williamson,  solicit- 
ing-agent  for  the  Mid-Continent  Life;  and  so — em- 
phatically so — does  the  Mid-Continent  itself.  Tru- 
deau,  the  "breed"  guide,  has  had  so  few  years  in 
which  to  turn  it  over  in  his  slow-moving  mind  as  he v 
has  lain  rolled  in  his  blankets  while  the  snow  sifted 
through  the  moaning  pines,  that  he  has  not  made  up 
his  mind.  As  for  Foster  Van  Dorn  and  Gwendolyn, 
their  opinions — but  the  story  itself  is  not  long. 

Williamson  says  that  when  he  left  Van  Dorn's 
office  with  the  application,  he  was  as  near  walking 
on  air  as  insurance  men  ever  are.  People  had  been 
so  slow  in  writing  their  autographs  on  the  dotted 
line — and  here  was  a  six-figure  application,  with  a 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  327 

check.  These,  accompanied  by  the  wide-eyed  Wil- 
liamson, exploded  into  the  mid-December  calm  of 
the  agency  headquarters  like  the  news  of  a  Tonopah 
strike  in  the  poker-playing  ennui  of  a  Poverty  Flat. 

"What's  that,  Williamson?"  ejaculated  the  cash- 
ier. "Five  hundred — you  don't  mean  thousand?" 

"Why,  confound  you,"  sneered  Williamson,  "look 
at  that  application !" 

"Let  me  see  it !"  panted  the  manager,  bursting  in. 
"  'Foster  G.  Van  Dorn;'  half  a  million!  Holy  cat, 
Williamson ;  but  this  will  put  you  and  the  agency  in 
the  lead,  for — •.  Is  he  good  for  it,  Williamson?" 

"Why  don't  you  see  that  check?"  inquired  the 
lofty  solicitor.  "I  tell  you,  fellows,  there's  always  a 
way  to  land  any  man.  Why,  for  a  year,  I've — by 
George !  I'm  forgetting  to  send  Doctor  Watson  over 
to  make  the  examination.  Van  Dorn's  going  on  a 
hunting  trip,  and  we've  got  to  hustle,  and  get  him 
nailed  before  he  goes!" 

The  manager  stood  by  Williamson  during  the 
telephoning.  "Who  is  Mr.  Van  Dorn?"  he  asked, 
as  the  agent  hung  up  the  receiver. 

"President  of  the  Kosmos  Chemical  Company," 
replied  Williamson.  "Son-in-law  and  enemy  of 
Colonel  Loree  of  the  Solar  Selling  Company,  you 
know,"  said  the  cashier. 


328  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

"Oh-h-h-h!"  replied  the  manager,  as  if  recalling 
something.  "I  remember  the  'romance'  in  the  news- 
papers; but  I  thought  the  young  fellow  was  poor. 
Fixed  it  up  with  the  colonel,  I  suppose — the  usual 
thing." 

"Not  on  your  life!"  replied  Williamson.  "Loree 
would  kill  him  if  he  dared — old  aristocrat,  you 
know ;  but  Van  Dorn's  too  smart  for  him.  You  re- 
member he  was  an  engineer  for  Loree's  company, 
and  met  the  daughter  on  some  inspection  trip.  Love 
at  first  sight — moonlight  on  the  mountains — run- 
away and  wedding  on  the  sly — father's  curse-^ 
turned  out  to  starve,  and  all  that." 

"I  remember  that,"  answered  the  manager;  "but 
it  doesn't  seem  to  lead  logically  up  to  this  applica- 
tion," 

"Well,"  went  on  Williamson,  "Van  Dorn  turns 
up  with  a  company  formed  to  work  a  deposit  of  the 
sal-ammoniac,  or  asphaltum,  or  whatever  the  stuff 
the  Solar  Company  had  cornered  may  be,  and  began 
trust-busting.  The  colonel  swore  the  new  deposit 
really  belonged  to  his  company  because  Van  Dorn 
found  it  while  in  his  employ,  and  called  him  all  sorts 
of  a  scoundrel.  But  the  yoting  man's  gone  on,  all 
the  same,  floating  his  company,  and  flying  high." 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  329 

"I  heard  that  Loree  was  sure  to  ruin  him,"  inter- 
posed the  cashier. 

"Ruin  nothing!"  said  Williamson.  "It  was  a  case 
of  the  whale  and  the  swordfish.  Van  Dorn's  got  him 
licked — why,  don't  you  see  that  check !" 

"That  does  look  like  success/'  replied  the  man- 
ager. "I  hope  his  strenuous  life  hasn't  hurt  his 
health — Watson  is  fussy  about  hearts  and  lungs." 

"That's  the  least  of  my  troubles,"  replied  Wil- 
liamson. "Van  Dorn's  an  athlete,  and  a  first-class 
risk.  There's  nothing  the  matter  with  Van  Dorn !" 

And  yet,  Trudeau  the  guide,  far  up  in  the  Minne- 
sota woods,  looked  at  the  young  man  and  wondered 
if  there  wasn't  something  the  matter  with  Van 
Dorn.  They  had  come  by  the  old  "tote-road"  to  the 
deserted  lumber-camp  armed  and  equipped  to  hunt 
deer.  Most  young  men  in  Van  Dorn's  situation  were 
keen-eyed,  eager  for  the  trail  and  the  chase — at  least 
until  tamed  by  weariness.  But  Van  Dorn  was  like  a 
somnambulist.  Once  Trudeau  had  left  him  behind 
on  the  road,  and  on  retracing  his  steps  to  find  him, 
had  discovered  him  standing  by  the  path,  gazing  at 
nothing,  his  lips  slowly  moving  as  if  repeating  some- 
thing under  his  breath — and  he  had  started  as  if  in 


330  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

fright  at  Trudeau's  hail.  He  had  been  careful  to 
give  Trudeau  his  card,  and  admonished  him  to  keep 
it ;  but  he  seemed  careless  of  all  opportunities  of  fol- 
lowing up  the  acquaintance.  Most  of  these  city 
hunters  were  anxious  to  talk;  but  what  troubled 
Trudeau,  was  the  manner  in  which  Van  Dorn  sat  by 
the  fire,  wrote  in  a  book  from  time  to  time,  and 
gazed  into  the  flames.  Now  that  they  had  reached 
the  old  camp,  Trudeau  hoped  that  actual  hunting 
would  bring  to  his  man's  eyes  the  fire  of  interest  in 
the  thing  he  had  come  so  far  to  enjoy. 

"I'll  fix  up  camp,"  said  he.  "If  you  like,  you  hunt. 
Big  partie  Chicageau  men  ove'  by  lake — keep  othe' 
way." 

"How  far  to  their  camp?"  asked  the  fire-gazer. 
'  'Bout  two  mile,"  answered  Trudeau. 

"Chicago  men?"  queried  Van  Dorn.  "How 
many?" 

"Mebbe  ten,"  answered  Trudeau;  "mebbe  six. 
She  have  car  on  track  down  at  depot.  Big  man — 
come  ev'ry  wintaire.  Jacques  Lacroix  guide  heem, 
Colonel  Lorie — big  man!" 

"Colonel  Loree!  From  Chicago?"  cried  Van 
Dorn. 

"Oui,  yes!"  replied  Trudeau.  "You  know  heem?" 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  331 

"No,"  said  Van  Dorn. 

The  man  who  did  not  know  Loree  went  to  his 
knapsack  and  took  out  a  jacket  made  of  deerskin 
tanned  with  the  hair  on.  It  was  lined  with  red  flan- 
nel. He  held  it  up  and  looked  at  it  fixedly.  Trudeau 
started  as  it  met  his  gaze,  and  he  came  up  to  Van 
Dorn  and  pointed  to  the  garment. 

"You  wear  zat  ?"  asked  he. 

"Yes,"  said  the  other.  "It  is  a  good  warm  jacket." 

"A  man  w'at  wear  deerskin  zhaquette,"  said  Tru- 
deau, "in  zese  wood',  in  shooting  seasone,  sartaine 
go  home  in  wooden  ove'coat — sure's  hell !" 

"Oh,  I  guess  there's  no  danger!"  said  Van  Dorn, 
his  lips  parting  with  a  mirthless  smile. 

"Non?"  queried  Trudeau.  "You  ben  in  zese 
wood'  before?" 

"Oh,  yes!"  replied  Van  Dorn.    "Lots  of  times!" 

"Zen  you  know!"  asserted  Trudeau.  "Zen  you 
are  zhoking  wiz  me.  Zese  huntaire  sink  brown  cloth 
coat,  gray  coat,  black  coat,  anysing  zat  move — she 
sink  zem  every  time  a  deer.  Las'  wintaire  lots  men 
killed  for  deer.  Pete  St.  Cyr's  boy  kill  deer,  hang 
heem  in  tree,  and  nex'  morning  take  heem  on  back 
an'  tote.  A  city  huntaire  see  deer-hide  wiz  hair  on 
moving,  an  bim !  sof '-nose  bullet  go  thoo  deer,  thoo 


332  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

Pete  St.  Cyr's  boy's  head!  Zat  zhaquette  damn- 
fool  thing!" 

"It  goes  either  side  out,"  said  the  hunter.  "I  can 
turn  it,  you  know." 

"I  turn  heem!  /  turn  heem!"  said  Trudeau,  suit- 
ing the  action  to  the  word.  "Red  is  bettaire,  by  gosh 
— in  zese  wood'." 

Trudeau  watched  his  companion  as  he  made  his 
laborious  way  through  the  cut-over  chaos  until  he 
disappeared ;  but  he  did  not  see  him  pause  when  out 
of  sight  of  camp,  and  turn  toward  the  lake. 

"I  would  rather  it  were  any  one  else,"  said  Van 
Dorn,  as  if  to  something  that  walked  by  his  side; 
"but  what  difference  does  it  make?  Why  not  let 
him  finish  his  work?" 

The  sheer  difficulty  of  the  country  brought  back 
to  Van  Dorn  something  like  the  forester's  alertness. 
The  lust  for  lumber  had  ravaged  the  spiry  forest, 
and  left,  inextricably  tangled,  the  wrecks  of  the 
noble  trees — forest  maidens  whose  beauty  had  been 
their  destruction ;  only  the  crooked  and  ugly  having 
escaped.  So  deep  and  complex  was  the  wreckage 
that  it  seemed  like  the  spilikins  of  a  giants'  game  of 
jack-straws — gnarled  logs,  limbs  like  chevaux-de- 
frise,  saplings  and  underbrush  growing  up  through 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  333 

chaos.  And  spread  over  and  sifted  through  all  was 
the  snow,  as  light  as  down. 

Van  Dorn  must  have  told  the  truth  as  to  his  for- 
mer visits;  for  he  went  on  like  one  used  to  this 
terrible  maze.  Nowhere  could  he  take  three  steps 
straight  forward:  it  was  always  climbing  up,  or 
laping  down,  or  going  around,  or  crawling  under. 
Here  thick  leaves  upheld  the  snow,  and  in  the  dry 
pine  straw  on  the  ground  he  could  hear  the  forest 
mice  rustle  and  scurry.  There  a  field  was  smoothed 
over  by  the  snow,  as  a  trap  is  hidden  by  sand,  cover- 
ing debris  just  high  enough  to  imperil  the  limbs  of 
the  pedestrian.  Yonder  was  a  tamarack  swamp  too 
thick  to  be  pierced :  and  everywhere  it  was  over  and 
under  and  up  and  down,  and  desperately  hard,  for 
miles  and  miles,  with  no  place  for  repose. 

He  gazed  away  over  the  strange  abomination  of 
desolation,  blindly  reflecting  upon  man's  way  of 
coming,  doing  his  worst,  and  passing  on  with  sated 
appetite,  leaving  ruin — as  he  had  done  here.  He 
wondered  why  that  tall  tract  of  virgin  pine  over  at 
the  right  had  been  allowed  to  escape,  standing 
against  the  sky  like  a  black  wall,  spiked  with  tall 
rampikes.  He  stared  fixedly  at  the  snow,  the  blue 
shadows,  the  black  pines,  somnambulistic  again. 


334  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

To  the  something  that  seemed  to  walk  by  his  side, 
he  spoke  of  these  things,  as  if  it  had  been  visible. 
Strange  actions,  strange  thoughts  for  the  president 
of  the  Kosmos  Chemical  Company,  the  great  antago- 
nist of  Loree  of  the  Solar  Selling  Company,  the 
David  to  Loree's  Goliath,  the  swordfish  to  the  colo- 
nel's whale!  Think,  however,  of  David,  with  all  the 
stones  spent  against  the  giant's  buckler,  and  cower- 
ing within  the  lethal  reach  of  that  spear  like  a  weav- 
er's beam ;  or  of  the  swordfish,  with  broken  weapon, 
hunted  to  the  uttermost  black  depths  by  the  oncom- 
ing silent  yawning  destruction.  And  in  Van  Dorn's 
case,  the  enemy  was  an  avenger  as  well  as  a  nat- 
ural foe. 

Poor  little  Kosmos  Chemical  Company  with  its 
big  name,  its  great  deposits  of  "a  prime  commercial 
necessity" — see  prospectus — its  dependence  on  rail- 
ways with  which  Loree  was  on  terms  of  which  Van 
Dorn  never  dreamed,  its  old  and  wily  foe,  skilled 
to  snatch  victory  from  the  jaws  of  defeat,  raging 
for  the  loss  of  his  ewe  lamb,  whom,  notwithstanding 
his  giantship,  he  had  loved  for  twenty  years  to  Van 
Dorn's  two,  and  had  dreamed  dreams  and  committed 
crimes  for!  Not  very  strange  after  all,  perhaps,  that 
the  man  went  on  muttering  somnambulistically. 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  335 

They  say  that  one  gripped  in  the  lion's  mouth  is 
numb  and  filled  with  delusions. 

Suddenly,  putting  life  into  the  dead  scene,  a 
bounding  form  came  into  view  past  a  thicket — a 
noble  buck  with  many-pointed  antlers,  moving  with 
great  deliberate  leaps  among  the  giants'  spilikins. 
The  delicate,  glassy  hoofs,  the  slender,  brittle  limbs 
and  horns,  fragile  as  china,  seemed  courting  destruc- 
tion in  those  terrific  entanglements.  Yet  the  beauti- 
ful animal,  as  if  by  some  magic  levitation,  rose 
lightly  from  a  perilous  crevice  between  two  logs, 
turned  smoothly  in  mid-leap,  struck  the  four  pipe- 
stem  limbs  into  the  only  safe  landing-place,  shot 
thence  with  arrowy  spring  between  two  bayonet-like 
branches  to  another  foothold,  and  so  on  and  on, 
every  rod  of  progress  a  miracle. 

He  stopped,  snuffing  the  air.  Instinctively  the 
hunter  leveled  his  rifle ;  and  then  came  into  view  the 
buck's  retinue,  two  does,  one  large  and  matronly, 
the  other  a  last  summer's  fawn.  The  sleep-walker's 
eyes  softened,  the  rifle  swung  downward  from  the 
point-blank  aim,  snapping  a  twig  in  its  descent,  and 
with  swift,  mighty  bounds,  the  deer  vanished,  put- 
ting a  clump  of  bushes  between  themselves  and  the 
foe  with  unerring  strategy. 


336  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

"Toward  the  lake,"  said  the  hunter.   "I'll  follow !" 

There  came  the  report  of  a  distant  rifle  from  the 
direction  of  the  deer's  flight,  then  another  and  an- 
other. Some  one  was  working  a  repeater  rapidly. 
The  hunter  stopped,  took  off  his  deer-skin  jacket, 
turned  it  hair  side  out,  and  like  a  soldier  making 
for  the  firing-line,  pressed  forward  after  the  deer. 

Trudeau  saw  his  man  halt  on  the  edge  of  the  fire- 
light that  evening,  turn  his  jacket,  and  come 
weariedly  into  camp.  Trudeau  sat  and  thought  that 
night,  while  the  other  slept  heavily.  Next  morning 
there  was  a  raging  storm,  and  the  guide  was  puzzled 
that  the  hunter  refused  to  brave  its  dangers.  It  was 
not  sure  then  that  monsieur  desired  the  wooden 
overcoat?  He  told  Van  Dorn  many  stories  of  death 
in  these  storms,  and  watched  for  the  effect. 

"Wen  man  is  lost  in  blizsaird/'  said  Trudeau, 
"ze  vidow  mus'  wait  an'  wait,  an'  mebbe  nevaire 
know  if  he  is  vidow  or  not." 

"It  would  be  better,"  said  the  other  reflectively, 
"to  have  the  proof  ample — ample !" 

Trudeau,  pondering  over  this,  watched  his  charge 
putting  names  in  a  book  opposite  amounts  in  figures ; 
but  he  did  not  know  that  here  was  the  lost  fortune 
of  an  old  aunt,  there  the  savings  of  a  college  chum. 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  337 

Van  Dorn  looked  them  over  calmly  as  if  it  had  been 
a  bills-payable  sheet  to  be  paid  in  the  morning. 
Then  the  strange  pleasure-hunter  began  writing  a 
letter  to  a  sweetheart  to  whom  he  seemed  to  be  able 
to  say  only  that  he  loved  her  better  than  life,  that 
she  must  try  to  love  his  memory,  and  to  train  up  the 
baby  to  respect  his  name,  that  the  right  thing  is  not 
always  easy  to  discern,  that  sometimes  one  has  only 
a  choice  of  evils,  that  when  a  man  has  made  a  mess 
of  it  which  he  can  straighten  out  by  stepping  off  the 
stage,  he  might  as  well  do  it — and  that  he  had  had 
his  share  of  happiness  since  she  had  been  with  him 
anyhow,  and  was  far  ahead  of  the  game !  Trudeau 
could  not  know  what  a  foolish,  silly,  tragic  letter  it 
was,  this  product  of  insane  commercialism.  He 
thought  life  and  the  woods  enough,  and  wondered  at 
the  shaking  of  the  man's  shoulders,  and  was  amazed 
to  see  the  tears  dropping  through  his  fingers  as  he 
bowed  his  head  upon  his  hands — a  man  with  a  fifty- 
dollar  sleeping-bag ! 

Over  at  the  Loree  headquarters  there  were  roar- 
ing fires,  fresh  venison,  a  skilful  chef,  jolly  com- 
panions, and  the  perfection  of  camp-life.  The  storm 
cleared.  That  strong  old  hunter,  Loree,  declaring 
that  his  business  was  to  stalk  deer,  marched  off  in 


338  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

the  solitary  quest  which  is  the  only  thing  that  brings 
the  haunch  to  the  spit  in  the  Minnesota  cut-over 
forest  He  was  bristly  bearded,  keen  of  eye  and 
vigorous,  handled  his  gun  cannily,  and  craftily  ne- 
gotiated the  fallen  and  tangled  timbers,  his  glance 
sweeping  every  open  vista  for  game.  There  was  no 
time  to  think  of  anything  but  the  making  of  his  way, 
and  of  the  chase.  Troubles  and  triumphs  retired  to 
the  outer  verge  of  consciousness.  Primeval  prob- 
lems claimed  his  thoughts,  and  the  primeval  man 
rose  to  meet  them.  It  was  in  this  ancient  and  ef- 
fective wise  that  he  had  sharpened  his  weapons,  set 
his  snares,  and  hunted  down  Foster  Van.Dorn — and 
left  him  in  the  money- jungle,  apparently  unhurt, 
but  really  smitten  to  the  heart  and  staggering  to  his 
fall.  It  was  the  Loree  way.  As  an  old  hunter,  he 
knew  just  where  his  shaft  had  struck,  and  how  long 
the  quarry  could  endure  the  hemorrhage.  Had  he 
not  said  that  the  fellow  should  be  made  to  rue  the 
Loree  displeasure  ? 

Like  a  flash  these  half-thoughts  became  no 
thoughts,  as  a  dark  blotch  caught  his  eye,  far  off  on 
the  snow,  beyond  a  little  thicket. 

"What  is  that?"  he  said  to  himself.  It  is  a  little 
hard  to  say,  but  the  matter  is  worth  looking  into. 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  339 

Just  the  color  of  a  deer!  Just  where  a  deer  would 
rest !  .We  must  work  up  the  wind  a  little  closer,  for 
some  men  are  so  foolish  as  to  wear  those  duns  and 
browns;  but  that! — that  is  a  deer's  coat.  It  won't 
do  to  jump  him  and  trust  a  shot  as  he  goes — those 
firs  will  hide  him  at  the  first  leap.  A  long  shot  at  a 
standing  target — there !  He  moved !  There's  not  a 
second  to  lose ! 

A  long  shot,  truly ;  but  that  graceful  rifle  thinks 
nothing  of  half  a  mile.  There  are  many  intervening 
bushes  and  saplings;  but  the  steel- jacketed  bullet 
would  kill  on  the  farther  side  of  the  thickest  pine, 
and  even  a  soft-nosed  one  will  cut  cleanly  to  this 
mark.  The  colonel's  practised  left  hand  immovably 
supported  the  barrel ;  the  colonel's  keen  eye  through 
the  carefully  adjusted  sights  saw  plainly  the  blotch 
of  deerskin  down  the  little  glade;  and  the  colonel's 
steady  forefinger  confidently  pressed  the  lightly-set 
trigger.  Spat!  The  colonel  felt  the  rifleman's  de- 
licious certitude  that  his  bullet  had  found  its  mark, 
threw  in  another  shell,  and  stood  tensely  ready  to 
try  the  bisecting  of  the  smitten  deer's  first  agonized 
bound — but  the  blur  of  fur  just  stirred  a  little,  and 
slipped  down  out  of  sight.  Bancroft  Libra 

Panting  in  the  killer's   frenzy,  Loree  struggled 


340  YELLOWSTONE   NIGHTS 

over  the  debris  to  reach  his  game.  How  oddly  the 
deer  had  fallen !  Heart,  or  brain,  likely ;  as  it  went 
down  like  a  log.  Here  was  the  thicket,  and  on  the 
other  side — yes,  a  patch  of  reddened  snow,  and  the 
body  of — no,  not  a  deer,  but  a  man,  dead,  it  seemed, 
clad  in  a  deerskin  jacket,  a  rifle  by  his  side  and  in 
his  hand  a  note-book  full  of  figures,  its  pages  all 
stained  and  crumpled ! 

There  was  a  shout  in  the  far  distance,  but  Loree 
heard  it  not.  He  knew  his  solitude,  and  never  looked 
for  aid.  The  white  strangeness  of  the  face  of  the 
man  he  had  shot  overcame  the  sense  of  something 
familiar  in  it;  and  the  colonel,  after  a  moment's 
scrutiny  of  it,  addressed  himself  frantically  to  the 
stanching  of  the  blood.  A  deep  groan  seemed  to 
warrant  hope ;  and  stooping  beneath  the  body  Loree 
took  it  up  and  began  bearing  it  toward  the  camp. 
He  had  an  overwhelming  consciousness  of  the  ter- 
rible task  before  him;  but  the  realization  of  the  hu- 
man life  dashed  out,  some  home  blasted,  some  in- 
finity of  woe,  and  the  bare  chance  of  rescue  rolled 
sickeningly  over  him,  and  he  set  his  teeth  and  at- 
tacked the  task  like  an  incarnate  will. 

Logs  and  boughs  and  dead-wood  held  him  back; 
countless  obstacles  exhausted  him.  He  felt  like  cry- 


YELLOWSTONE   NIGHTS  341 

ing  out  in  agony  as  he  realized  that  his  age  was 
telling  against  him.  He  felt  strangely  tender  at  this 
meeting  with  death  in  its  simple  and  more  merciful 
form.  He  clenched  his  teeth  hard,  felt  his  heart 
swell  as  if  to  burst,  his  lungs  labor  in  agonized  heav- 
ings — and  when  Trudeau  the  guide  overtook  him, 
he  found  him  a  frenzied  man,  covered  with  dark 
streaks  and  splashes  of  blood,  unconquerably  hurl- 
ing upon  his  impossible  task  his  last  reserves  of 
strength,  with  all  that  iron  resolution  with  which  he 
had  beaten  down  resistance  in  his  long  battle  with 
a  relentless  world. 

"For  God's  sake/'  he  panted  hoarsely,  "help  me 
get  him  to  camp!  We've  got  a  doctor  there!" 

"How's  the  colonel?"  said  the  doctor,  when  he 
had  done  all  he  could  for  the  colonel's  victim. 

"Knocked  all  to  pieces,"  answered  a  young  man. 
"Wants  to  know  if  we've  found  out  who  the  man  is." 

Colonel  Loree  was  interrogating  Trudeau;  sur- 
prised that  he  did  not  know  the  name  of  the 
wounded  man. 

"Non"  answered  Trudeau,  "she  tell  me  his  name, 
and  give  me  carte,  but  I  lose  heem  an'  forget  firs' 
day.  Remember  wood',  remember  trail,  remember 


342  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

face  ver'  well — but  name;  she  I  forget.  She  write 
lettaire  an1  cry,  an'  all  time  put  fig'  in  book.  Zis  is 
heem;  mebbe  she  tell  name!" 

The  smutched  names  were  strange  to  the  colonel ; 
but  on  another  page  there  were  some  inexplicable 
references  to  Kosmos  Chemical  affairs;  and  on  the 
cover  were  dim  initials  that  looked  like  "F.  V.  D." 

"I  know  something  is  wrong,"  went  on  Trudeau ; 
"for  I  tell  her  it  ben  ires  danger euse  to  wear  deer- 
skin zhaquette  in  zese  wood'  in  shooting  se&wne.  I 
turn  zhaquette  red  out.  She  go  toward  your  camp. 
I  watch.  I  see  her  turn  heem  hair  out.  I  tell  you, 
messieurs,  zat  man  want  to  go  home  in  wooden  ove'- 
coat.  She  have  hungaire  to  die." 

"Here's  a  letter  we  found  in  his  pocket,"  said  the 
young  man.  "Look  at  it,  Colonel." 

The  colonel  looked,  saw  his  daughter's  name,  re- 
membered the  familiar  look  in  the  white,  agonized, 
pitiful  face;  and  saw  the  whole  situation  as  by  some 
baleful  flash-light. 

"Good  God!  Good  God!"  he  cried.  "It's  Van 
Dorn !  Get  things  ready  to  carry  him  in  his  bed  to 
the  car — quick,  Johnson!  And  get  to  the  wire  as 
soon  as  you  can.  Have  Tibbals  bring  Gwennie — 
Mrs.  Van  Dorn — to  Duluth.  Wire  the  hospital 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  343 

there !  You  know  what's  needed — look  after  things 
right,  Johnson,  for  I  think — I  think — I'm  going 
mad,  old  man !" 

Mrs.  Van  Dorn  ran  into  her  father's  arms  in  the 
hospital  anteroom.  Through  mazes  of  frenzied  anx- 
iety she  felt  an  epoch  open  in  her  life  with  that  em- 
brace from  the  father  who  had  put  her  out  of  his 
life  for  ever,  as  they  thought. 

"Dear,  dear  papa!"  she  whispered,  "let  me  go  to 
Foster,  quick!" 

"Not  just  now,  Gwennie,  little  girl,"  said  he,  pat- 
ting her  shoulder.  "He's  asleep.  Did  you  bring  the 
—the  baby?" 

"No,  no!  I  thought— but  Foster?"  cried  Gwen- 
dolyn. "Will  he— will  he—" 

"He'll  live,  by  Heaven!"  cried  the  colonel.  "I 
fired  one  fool  for  hinting  that  he  wouldn't ;  and  now 
they're  all  sure  he'll  pull  through.  Why,  he's  got  to* 
live,  Gwennie!" 

The  colonel  reached  for  his  handkerchief,  much 
hampered  by  Gwendolyn's  arms. 

"And  when  he's  well,"  said  he,  "I  want  your  help 
— in  a  business  way.  I'm  too  old  to  fight  a  man  like 
Foster.  He's  got  me  down,  Gwennie — beaten  me  to 


344  YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS 

earth.  If  he  won't  come  in  with  me,  it's  all  up  with 
the  Solar.  He's  a  fine  fellow,  Gwen — I — like  him, 
you  know — but  he  don't  know  how  hard  he  hits. 
You'll  help  your  old  dad,  won't  you,  Gwennie?" 

To  this  point  had  the  appeal  of  concrete,  piteous 
need  brought  Colonel  Loree,  the  ferocious,  whose 
heart  had  never  once  softened  while  he  did  so  much 
more  cruel  things  than  the  mere  shooting  of  Van 
Dorn.  It  broke  Gwendolyn's  heart  afresh. 

"Oh,  don't  papa!"  she  cried.  "I  can't  sta-stand  it ! 
He  sha'n't  use  his  strength  against  you !  I'll  be  on 
your  side.  He's  generous,  papa — he  wanted  to  name 
baby  Loree — and,  oh,  I  must  go  to  him,  papa!  I 
can't  wait !" 

The  cigars  had  burned  out,  and  the  coffee  cups 
and  their  saucers  were  messy  with  ashes.  The  Hired 
Man  nodded  in  his  chair.  Aconite  was  slowly  formu- 
lating some  comment  on  the  Poet's  story — when  the 
Bride  rose. 

"You've  all  been  awfully  nice  to  me,"  said  she, 
"and  I  feel  almost  weepy  when  I  think  of  never 
seeing  you  again.  So  I  am  not  going  to  think  of  it 
I  shall  hope  to  meet  you,"  said  she  to  Aconite,  "in 
the  stories  which  my  friends  bring  back  from  the 


YELLOWSTONE    NIGHTS  345 

Park — for  I'm  going  to  tell  them  all  to  come,  and  to 
ride  with  you,  and  learn  about  Old  Jim  Bridger. 
And  you,  Mr.  Bill,  I  shall  see  when  I  pass  through 
the  corn  country  sometime — I  feel  sure  of  it.  You 
will  be  plowing  corn,  and  I  shall  wave  my  hand  from 
the  car  window  as  you  look  up  at  the  speeding  train. 
I  shall  always  see  a  friend  in  every  plowman  now. 
And  you,  sir,  I  shall  watch  for  in  the  Poet's  Corner 
of  the  Hall  of  Fame;  and  you  in  the  Artist's  alcove. 
And,  Colonel,  I  know  I  shall  see  you  sometime,  for 
every  one  passes  through  Omaha  sooner  or  later. 
Good-by,  and  God  bless  you,  every  one!  We  have 
made  a  continued  story  of  our  trip — for  that,  thanks 
to  all,  and  now  let  us  close  the  book,  after  writing 


THE  END 


